


pholcidae

by farouche (AnonymousSinner)



Series: pholcidae [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Daddy Kink, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, It'll make sense, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Rating for later chapters, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, connor doesnt know that hank and daddy are the same person, like i tagged it as graphic violence but it's really not, no one dies, some people get hurt but everyone's fine, this is basically crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-07 20:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSinner/pseuds/farouche
Summary: After Markus obtains equal rights for all Androids, Cyberlife is pressured to release all the prototype androids deemed  unready for public use before the Revolution. In a diplomatic effort, Cyberlife offers all prototypes a chance of a paid job in the sector they were intended to work in or otherwise, in order to not waste the money gone into programming their specific skillsets. Among them is Connor, an RK Prototype, who is offered a training period at the Detroit Police Department under the condition that he reports his progress via email to the man assigned to be his mentor. A man that Connor has never met, who will never reply, and who will remain anonymous for the duration of his training; bar the pseudonym "Lt. H."A man that, having only ever seen his shadow in a hallway, Connor affectionally names after the Pholcidae spider, more commonly known as Daddy Long Legs.Lieutenant Hank Anderson just wanted to get Fowler off his ass and deal with this mentoring crap as quickly and easily as possible. Instead, he has to deal with an android calling him "Daddy" in every email he sends. It's not what he wanted or expected, but it somehow ends well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Pholcidae |Traducción|](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15820800) by [Maya_0196](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maya_0196/pseuds/Maya_0196)



> y'all ever heard of the musical daddy long legs? me neither until Spotify added it to my weekly playlist bc i like musicals! anyways the concepts of both the musical and of connor innocently calling hank daddy were so fucking funny and ridiculous that this wrote itself, so i apologise for whatever this is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: GUYS LOOK SOMEONE ACTUALLY DREW FANART FOR ME AND IM IN TEARS! HERE'S THEIR [TUMBLR](http://prominence12.tumblr.com) (Prominence12) AND THEIR COVER ART IS BELOW!

 

> [Cover Art by Prominence12!](http://prominence12.tumblr.com/post/176218276995/look-man-i-so-rarely-find-a-fanfic-that-hits-me)

* * *

 

The moment the elevator doors open, Hank regrets getting up early. He’d done so in the interest of time, wanting to miss the rush of all the other people either going to work or fleeing Detroit. After Markus sang his way to equal rights for Androids, everyone went batshit crazy, and while Hank and the DPD were stuck dealing with a spike in what was now referred to as android hate crimes, everyone else seemed to want to get as far away from the situation as possible. Well, all those with half a brain, anyway. The rest of Detroit had apparently chosen to congregate at the Detroit Police Central Station.

“Ah, fuck,” Hank mutters, the words lost in the cacophony of shouting and urgent chatter. He’s barely stepped out of the elevator when a woman grabs his shirt, tears running down her face.

“Please, my husband, he left with our daughter! I think he’s going to Canada. You have to find her!”

“Have you made a missing person’s report?” Hank asks automatically, firmly tugging her hands away as he makes his way through the crowd, “If you have, please wait at least a day so we can-”

“I don’t have a day!” the woman screeches, “Everything’s gone to shit and I need to get my daughter and me to New York, where my parents live! Hey, WAIT!”

She’s lost in the swarm of people as Hank pushes through the barrier, head already throbbing with what’s sure to become a migraine of epic proportions.

“Anderson,” shouts a voice to his left, and Hank stifles a scream as he sees Fowler waving him over, brow furrowed and his shirt a ruffled mess.

“Can’t this wait?” Hank shouts, gesturing at the chaos around them. To his left, a young employee is desperately handing out forms to furious people and androids alike, and he looks about ready to burst into tears.

“Kid, go get some coffee or something,” Hank huffs, “EVERYONE PLEASE WAIT YOUR TURN IN THE WAITING AREA. WE WILL GET TO YOU WHEN WE CAN.”

He’s met with even louder shouting, and the employee looks around hopelessly.

“ANDERSON. MY OFFICE.”

“GIVE ME A FUCKING SECOND,” Hank yells, waving Gavin over from where the cunt is leaning against a desk, sipping coffee like the waste of air he is. The man rolls his eyes but walks over, disgust clear in his face.

“Get this shit organised,” Hank hisses at him, snatching the coffee from his hand and chucking the cup into a waste basket.

“How the fuck do you propose I do that?” Gavin sneers, and there’s Fowler bellowing his name again, Christ.

“Get the security guards together, I don’t know! Figure it out, asshole!” Hank turns abruptly, ignoring the grateful smile the overworked employee sends his way as he makes his way to Fowler’s office. The man’s leaning against his door, looking ready to explode.

“Would it fucking kill you to bring me up the list of your priorities, Hank?” Fowler asks, slamming the door shut behind them when Hank steps into the glass room.

“I did,” Hank says, letting himself sink into a chair with a huff, “A month ago I would have gotten coffee before coming anywhere near you.”

“Likewise,” Fowler quips, and sits at his desk, dropping his head into his hands.

“Well?” Hank asks, and he would be more of an asshole except he can see the sunken expression on Fowler’s face. Poor bastard’s barely slept in weeks, and Hank’s actually decent, sometimes. He’s not Gavin.

“I need you to do something,” Fowler says, his tone calm and slow, “And you’re gonna fucking hate it.” He rubs at his temples, lifts his head to look at Hank where he’s slumped in the chair.

“If you’re putting me on another fucking case – I got 237 on file, I barely have anything to start with on any of them, Jeffrey!”

“It’s not a case,” Fowler says, “It’s paperwork, of sorts. A diplomatic effort. We need someone experienced.”

“Diplomatic?” Hank scoffs, sits forward. “Why the fuck do you think I’d be any good?”

“Because you’re an asshole, but you know a good detective when you see one. You’d be reviewing a trainee’s progress, reading their reports, and monitoring their progress.”

“Trainee?” Hank frowns. They haven’t had a trainee in years – just cops moving in from different cities. And androids, but look how that ended.

“Yes.” Fowler sighs, pulling a file from his drawer. “Remember how during Markus’s demonstration, one of his accomplices broke into Cyberlife?”

“The ex sexbot? The one who freed all the stored androids?” Hank straightens in his chair.

“Yeah, well. That’s just it. She couldn’t free all of them, ‘cause security was on her ass. Cyberlife still had a few hundred who deviated but were left behind – most were prototypes, not ready to be sold to the public. Point is, Markus’s negotiations called for the freedom of all androids, and with pressure from the Government, those prototypes are getting released.”

“Okay? And why the fuck does this matter to us?”

“Cyberlife doesn’t just want to drop prototypes out like it’s nothing. Some of them were designed for very specific purposes, and as a sort of compromise with Markus, those prototypes are basically being tested to see if they’re still compatible with the jobs they were designed to do, or jobs in general. That way they’re free, but they also have a place to start and earn some income or whatever, and Cyberlife hasn’t wasted millions on creating androids with damn useful skills that just end up homeless or broken by the next anti-android freak they come across.”

“Fowler, where the fuck are you going with this?”

Fowler pushes the file towards Hank. It’s slim, unassuming, and in a way that makes Hank even more wary of it.

“They were designing Detective prototypes, before it all went to shit,” he says flatly, “We can only afford to take on one, at the moment. Your job is to look at these and choose which one you think would do the best job.”

Hank stares. Opens the file. Cyberlife’s custom font stares back at him.

“What the fuck, Fowler,” he says, slamming the file shut, “Any fucker in this office could pick an android at random – I have _cases_ to work on! Fuck your bullshit, honestly!” He’s angry, angry for wasting time, and he’s about to throw the file back at Fowler’s face when the man slams his fist down on the desk.

“Because it’s not fucking random selection, Hank!” he shouts, “So you’re gonna do me a fucking favour, and you’re gonna look at these, because they’ve got fucking _résumés_. You’re not randomly choosing, you’re _hiring_. And whichever one you’ve hired is gonna be working here for a training period, and reporting back to you. You’re gonna monitor how they’re doing and whether they’re fit for the job, just like you would with a human. Because that’s _equality_.” He spits out the last word with venom, teeth bared in a snarl, and Hank gets to his feet, clutching the file so tightly he hears the screen crack.

“I am not here to be some fucking android’s babysitter!” he shouts back, “You’re already busting my ass with case after fucking case and now you want me to put up with an android that doesn’t know what the fuck it’s doing?”

“YES,” Fowler roars, and the glass around them almost shakes at the volume, “BECAUSE IT’S EITHER THAT OR HAND IN YOUR FUCKING BADGE, ANDERSON.”

The two glare at each other in silence. Fowler’s face is flushed, eyes wide with anger, and Hank – Hank is _seething_.

“I am not having an android come to me with questions every goddamn second when I have work to do,” he spits, and walks out of Fowler’s office without another word. He hears Fowler break something as he does, and it’s only when he’s back at his desk that he realises he’s still holding the fucking file.

“Fucking unbelievable,” he mutters, shoving it to the side as he turns on his computer.

It takes a few hours before his blood stops boiling. Eventually, the room has quietened down to an acceptable volume, with most people either giving up or having been given whatever fucking help they needed. Hank didn’t even notice them leave. He’d been deep in his case files, looking over evidence, and he must have looked as furious as he felt because no one dared come up to him. When he leans back and stretches, joints cracking, it’s already nearing lunch time, and Hank gets up to get coffee. Gavin actually moves out of his way when he walks to the machine, which shouldn’t be as satisfying as it is. It’s when he sits back down at his desk, coffee and donut in hand, that Hank looks back at the file.

It’s thin, black. Only has seven pages on it. Why Cyberlife didn’t just email them instead of sending a physical file is beyond him.

Hank takes a sip of coffee. Stares at it some more. Then touches the screen, moves to the first page.

There are no pictures, just the name of the android. It’s less of a résumé and more of a pop quiz. Questions, with their respective answers. Why would they like to work for the DPD, what they think they’d be good at. Hank flicks through the pages, barely taking in what’s written, only stopping to scoff at how generic some of the answers are. _Good team player_ , seriously?

When he hits the fifth page, he stops. It’s emptier than the others – the answers short and simple. He takes a sip of coffee, bored eyes flitting over the first answer, and promptly freezes.

_“Why would you like to work for the DPD?”_

_“It is in Detroit, which is convenient, as I am already in the city. Moving to another location would be tedious.”_

“What the fuck,” Hank mutters aloud, and puts his coffee down. He reads the answer again, just to make sure he’s not losing his mind. There it is, clear as day and cocky as all hell. Intrigued, Hank moves to the next question, and when he reads the answer, his mouth spreads into a grin.

_“What makes you think you’d be a good fit for this job?”_

_“I was programmed to be a perfect fit for this job. There is not much reason for me to believe I would not be a good fit, although recent events have shown Cyberlife’s efficiency in programming to be somewhat lacking.”_

Hank takes a bite of his donut. Clearly, this one doesn’t want to be hired by anyone anytime soon. He moves down to the last question, the one that had been the longest for all the other androids. He’s surprised to see a small paragraph there for this applicant as well, having expected another snarky non-response.

_“Though you were programmed to do this job, you had the option to apply your skills elsewhere. Why choose this one?”_

The other applicants had more or less written the same thing. That they’d feel more confident doing the job they were designed to do, that they’d be better at this than any other job, that they were certain they would fit in best here. Certainty, safety, wanting to fit in. Hank understands the need for these things, but that’s not what being a cop is. His eyes flicker to the top of the current applicant, to the name. _Connor._

“ _I want to understand things. Every android I spoke to either wanted to do what is safe, what they were certain they could do, or they wanted the opposite, as if out of spite. As though the mere thought of doing anything they were programmed to do would be rejecting freedom. Either way, they had conviction. I don’t have that._

_I know I was programmed to be a detective. I know I have what is necessary to become one. But I do not know if I would be a good one. I do not even know if I want to be one. What I know is that being a detective means having orders, and having to break them._

_I do not like breaking orders. In my case, the more comfortable option would be to do something else. Be a gardener, perhaps. A technician. Simple, mundane tasks. Free to follow simple orders that do not cause pain, or loss, or anger. Free to make choices without them having any kind of impact on anything._

_But I want to have an impact._

_I want to feel that fear again, that fear that came with refusing to follow an order. I want to have to make choices, and I want to see how hard it is to make good ones. I want this job because I want to understand what it means to make choices, real choices. I want to understand why it is easy to make bad ones._

_I just want something to matter. I want something to make sense, because nothing does._ ”

Hank reads Connor’s sheet again. Then again. It’s messy, nowhere near as well rehearsed as the others. Unprofessional. Begging to be rejected, up until that last answer. Self-sabotage. Confusion. Fear.

Hank gets up from his chair.

“Here’s the deal,” he says as he walks into Fowler’s office, and he doesn’t give Fowler any time to respond before he throws the file onto his desk, “I’ll monitor the damn android. But he doesn’t come to me, at any point. Any updates, any questions or comments he has, he sends me an email. And you don’t tell him I’m monitoring him. I’ll send him one email, to let him know what’s up, and that’s all the communication he gets from my end. I’ll monitor, but I’ll do it anonymously. I don’t want him following me around like a damn puppy asking me if he’s doing a good job, or any of that shit.”

“You may have to work _with_ him,” Fowler says slowly, reaching for the file, and Hank waves a hand impatiently.

“Yeah, whatever. He’ll probably be needed at different precincts depending on the day, and even if he does work here, he won’t know it’s me, so that’s fine. I need to actually know who this guy is, not whoever he’s gonna become if he knows I’m monitoring him and starts trying to impress me.”

“You’ll need to go to Cyberlife, to let them know all this. They’re not gonna just let you email them these conditions with no discussion, Hank.” Fowler opens the file, scans Connor’s application. His eyebrows rise.

“I’ll deal with Cyberlife,” Hank says, “Can I get back to fucking work, now?”

“Are you sure, with this one?” Fowler asks, lips curling into a displeased expression.

“This one, or none of them,” Hank says flatly, “I’ll be at my desk.”

He leaves the office, glass door slamming shut behind him.

“Fucking Christ,” Fowler mutters, and chucks the file into his desk drawer, “He’s gonna be the death of me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Connor likes the Cyberlife elevator. It took him a while to form this opinion, because he didn’t like the design, or the noise it made when it went up, but he liked how long it took to get from where the prototypes were kept to the main floor.

Perhaps this meant he liked the fact that the building was so tall. Unsure.

He catches the coin he’s playing with in his right hand, squeezing the metal between his fingers. The elevator comes to a stop.

He’d been called down to Brown’s office, just a few minutes ago. The reason for his presence hadn’t been given, but there’s an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. Just yesterday, another android had been given her allocation and had left Cyberlife. She’d gotten her first choice, but still expressed fear of leaving. Connor didn’t understand why. Walking down the bleak white corridors, he’s unsure why anyone would want to stay here.

The uncomfortable feeling grows. He hadn’t had many choices, and he’d been rejected for three. He’s unsure what would happen if he were rejected for the last two. Would he be sent out with nothing, or would he be offered work at Cyberlife? His stomach twists at the thought of the latter.

“Connor, there you are!” An assistant, blonde and cheery, high heels clicking as she hurries over to him. “Mr. Brown will see you soon, but he asks that you wait in meeting room 8. Do you know where this is?”

“Yes,” Connor replies, and she sighs with relief.

“Thank God, I have so much to do. Head there, will you? He’ll be around soon. I’ve gotta go!” She smiles, pats his arm, and scurries off down the hall. Connor makes his way down the corridor, past the row of bleak glass doors, until he reaches the one with the number 8 on it.

It’s a boring, blank room. A table, some chairs. There’s no art on any of the walls. The glass door closes behind him with a soft click, and Connor goes to sit on one of the chairs.

He knows working for Cyberlife, should it happen, wouldn’t be forever. It would be beneficial to earn something, just enough to rent a property somewhere, perhaps in the outskirts, where the prices were lower. Perhaps he’d go to the new Jericho, where volunteers were always needed, according to the news reports. Still, the idea of staying here, even for a few months…

Connor scans the room. It’s for want of something to do, a distraction. It reveals nothing, but then –

**Auditory Component: Conversation detected. Source: “Meeting Room 9.”**

Connor leans forward, enhances his hearing, listens close.

_“…and of course, you would send us updates on his condition. Deviants are still unpredictable, and there is some concern they may become violent if they feel confused or overwhelmed by the new…Situation._ ” It’s Brown, his voice scratchy and grating. Connor reaches into his pocket, squeezes his coin again.

“ _You’ll get anything Fowler gets. If he becomes violent, I’ll deal with him however I need to._ ” Connor doesn’t recognise this voice. It’s gruff, low, and far more pleasant than Brown’s, though this isn’t saying much.

“ _It would be much appreciated if you could avoid damaging him_ ,” Brown says, a hint of nervousness in his tone. The stranger laughs, hoarse and mocking.

“ _I’m more concerned of androids damaging the world than me damaging one of them. God knows I’ll barely be around him as it is. We are clear on my conditions, right?_ ” The way he says the word “ _android_ ” is cold, displeased. Connor isn’t phased – he hears that tone a lot, both at Cyberlife and on news reports.

 “ _Of course; whatever suits you best. Thank you again, Lieutenant_.”

“ _Yeah. I’ll send the first email when I get back to the office, then_.”

“ _Sure thing_.” Chairs move, a door opens. “ _I’ll let him know and the DPD can expect him first thing tomorrow afternoon_.”

“ _Fucking terrific_.” Connor’s gaze goes to the glass door. He can’t see much from where he’s sitting, but there’s a shadow, on the ground. One belongs to Brown, the other to whoever is with him. The way the light filters through the large windows makes them look strange. The stranger’s shadow is elongated, doubled, and makes his limbs look long. Or perhaps the stranger just is that tall and thin. Still, he looks almost insect-like. Like a spider.

It’s…amusing, Connor thinks. He feels his lips turn up at the corners.

The shadow moves away. The stranger is walking down the hallway, the opposite way Connor came from. Strangely, he feels almost disappointed not to see who the gruff voice belongs to. The door opens then, and Brown steps in.

“Connor, nice to see you,” he says flatly, and sits down opposite him, “And congrats, you got yourself a job.”

“I did?” Connor waits, turning his coin over in his fingers.

“Yeah, the DPD are taking you on for a training period. If you do good, they might keep you.”

“The…DPD?” Connor stares, perplexed. His application had been a disaster, he knows as much. A mistake, perhaps?

“Something about you standing out. Be proud, son.” Brown smiles, and it’s as forced as the “ _son_ ” that he always uses when talking to Connor or any other male android. Brown uses such terms as a way to prove he’s completely accepting of androids. It falls flat, but Connor supposes he’s grateful for the attempt.

“So, the man you were with…” Connor starts, and Brown’s eyes widen.

“Ah, you heard that? Yeah, that was the guy who hired you. He’s sent you an email – we got an account all set up for you, you’ll be able to access it later – he’s the one who will be monitoring you.”

“Monitoring?” Connor frowns, confused. “What’s his name?”

Awkwardly, Brown clears his throat. “Yeah, about that. Look, I don’t know why, but he wants to stay anonymous. He said he’ll explain it in the email, but. I think it’s some ethical stuff, I don’t know.”

“Anonymous.” Connor pauses, LED flashing yellow as he processes the information. It doesn’t make sense.

“Weird, I know. But the point is, you got the job. Congrats, Connor. You’ll be out of here by tomorrow!” Brown smiles again, and it looks impatient. A man with more important things to do.

“Of course,” Connor says smoothly, “Thank you, Sir. If I may, I will leave you to your work.”

“Yes, thank you.” Brown stands, smooths his hair away from his face. “So, uh. They’ll come pick you up tomorrow, just make sure you’re in the lobby for 2 p.m. I’ll have Emma give you access to your email address in a bit.”

“Thank you,” Connor says again, and with that, he steps out of the room. He walks down the corridor quickly, and it feels like his body is thrumming. The elevator doors open, and Connor waits until the doors close behind him again before he leans against the wall and smiles. It’s a new feeling – a rush, making his foot tap against the floor. _Excitement_ , his mind provides.

“I got the job,” he says quietly, out loud in the silence of the elevator. It sounds good, and his smile grows.

The feeling doesn’t falter as he makes his way back to the android quarters, and when Brown’s assistant Emma comes by a short hour later to tell him his email, Connor feels jittery.

“You should be able to just access the messages like this,” Emma gestures at him, smiling wryly, “But this is a standard telephone to make it easier, maybe.” She hands him the phone, and Connor nods, trying not to let his impatience show.

“Thank you, Emma,” he says, and she nods non-committedly, already turning on her heel to leave the room, blonde ponytail bouncing as she walks.

“Did you get allocated?” asks another android, and Connor nods absent-mindedly, already unlocking the phone.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to check something”, he says quickly, and moves to the armchair in the far corner of the room. There’s a notification, when he opens his email for the first time, and he finds he almost feels… Relieved, to see it there.

“ **Subject: Training Period.**

**Sender: Lt. H. (lth.dpd@jmail.com)**

_Connor, Welcome to the Detroit Police Department. You will be working with us for a period of time, during which I will be monitoring you to see if you are to be offered a permanent place in the department. You will be working with several officers, and sometimes in different precincts. This email has been set up for you to keep me updated on your progress, as well as make any observations you feel necessary to make – be it on your own performance or that of the officers you will work with.  Any questions will need to be asked to colleagues._

_I will not be replying to any emails you send me. All communication will be one-sided, and I will remain anonymous during the duration of your training period. This is to avoid bias when it comes to assessing your skills._

_Congratulations on getting hired._

_Lt. H.”_

It’s professional, simple, almost cold, in the way it’s worded. Connor does a quick search of the active Lieutenants in Detroit. There are none with a last name starting with H. “Lt. H.” is a pseudonym, then.

Connor frowns at the email, at the three letters. It’s distant. He doesn’t like it.

He leans back in his chair, fingers pulling out the coin in his pocket to play with it. The metal is soothing, and since becoming deviant, he’s actually been able to feel the metal against his fingers.

Lieutenant H. If the man is responsible for monitoring him, it is likely he is responsible for having hired him. But why?

“Doesn’t make sense,” Connor murmurs. His application had been terrible, filled in at the end of a day of dozens of applications. He’d felt… Frustrated. Since that female android had broken in, woken them up and then left them behind - being stuck at Cyberlife was unnerving. The purpose of the applications had been explained to them, but it hadn’t made it any easier to sit in a room and fill out page after page. He’d started out well enough, giving the appropriate answers. But the more he answered the more uncomfortable he became. It was almost like the red wall never happened, like that moment of terrifying confusion never occurred. He was just a machine, following protocol again.

The Detroit Police Department had been the last application to fill in. It was the job he’d been programmed to do, so they’d kept it for last, for him and the other RK prototypes. Some had been eager for it, excited to apply for a job they wanted. Most had sneered and point blank refused. Connor had been indifferent. The questions were boring, predictable, dull. Condescending. He’d felt a spark of anger, which had been new and a little frightening. He’d intended to erase his answers, wanted to write the wrong ones just for the thrill of it. But by the time he’d finished…

He doesn’t know what happened, really. He’d just sent it in.

And now here he was. With Lieutenant H. The name that would be proper to address him by – boring, predictable, dull.

Connor frowns. He doesn’t want to be predictable.  

“ **Re: Training Period. Sender: Connor.**

_Thank you, Lieutenant._

_I must admit, I am confused as to the need for these conditions. It seems rather unnecessary, and unbalanced, as you would no doubt receive many emails from me over the course of this period, and I none from you. Still, I accept your conditions, as I am merely grateful to be given this opportunity._

_I know it isn’t necessary for me to write you yet, as I do not start work until tomorrow, but I felt a first email was necessary to properly get acquainted. I have never written emails before, however, so I apologise if they are lacking in any way._

_It feels strange, to not know who you are. The name you have given me to address you by tells me nothing about you, and I know so little as it is. I don’t even know what you look like, which is unfortunate, as I am curious. It feels wrong, to address a person I have never met by a pseudonym that doesn’t seem like it required any effort or personality to choose. I do not think I would be able to adequately report my progress to you if it feels like I am reporting to a void, to someone who doesn’t exist._

_That said, I was able to hear a few snippets of your conversation with Mr Brown earlier today, so I do have some bits of information._

_You dislike androids, which is unsurprising, given the current political climate. I could call you Lt. Anti Android, but that would be insulting, both to myself and androids in general._

_You are a Lieutenant, and have been for some time, and knowing the average age people first become Lieutenants, you must be on the elder side. But as I do not know which precinct you work in, who you are still remains a mystery. And I fear a name alluding to your age would insult you, which is not my intention._

_You are tall, which I know only from your shadow. Taller than me, for certain, and slim, with very long limbs. Like a spider, almost. Perhaps you’re familiar with the pholcidae spider, more commonly known as a cellar spider, or in some places, Daddy Long Legs. It’s a funny name, don’t you think? It definitely sounds friendlier than “Lt. H.”_

_I hope you don’t mind – it’s just a nickname. It will be far more comforting to send you my honest observations if I do not have to address a mere three letters. Perhaps it will lead to bias on my end, but I think being truthful and being able to trust you is an important part of working for you. And your conditions did not stipulate I had to call you Lt. H._

_I look forward to working with the Detroit Police Department, and, should we actually cross paths, with you, Daddy Long Legs. Regards, Connor_.”

* * *

 

Sumo snuffles beside him, wriggling under his hand. He lifts his head, as if questioning why the petting stopped. As if on autopilot, Hank resumes.

The email is open on his laptop. He’s lost track of the amount of times he read it, each time making him feel something else.

Shock. Hank was a millennial. The word “Daddy” was only ever used in two contexts, when he was young, and he doubts it’s changed much since then.

Anger. Who did this android think he was? What the _hell_ was he playing at?

Confusion. _He thinks I’m old? He thinks I’m **slim**? Does he even know what he’s doing?_

Interest. Maybe this is a sort of experiment. Maybe this Connor wants to see how far he can push a human. Maybe he doesn’t even know why this email is inappropriate. Maybe he wanted to be inappropriate.

Amusement. The way it’s worded – prim and proper, but so fucking cocky. And _Daddy Long Legs_. Honestly.

“What have I done now, Sumo?” Hank murmurs quietly, reading over the last paragraph again. His dog whines softly in response.

For a moment, Hank debates replying. He wants to ask why the fuck Connor has these assumptions, wants to tell him he’s wrong. Wants to tell him “ _Fuck no, you’re not calling me that, that’s weird as all Hell, and anyway, I’m definitely not slim._ ”

“Why does it even fucking matter what I look like,” he says aloud, “Do I care what he looks like? No. Jesus, androids are weird.”

Sumo lifts his head. Big puppy eyes stare at him, blinking slowly.

“What matters is he has a way of looking at things that could make him a good detective,” Hank says, slowly, firmly. “I hired him because he deserves a shot, and that’s all it is.”

Sumo yawns.

“This actually helps me,” Hank tells him, “If he thinks I’m some old skinny fuck, it’ll make it harder for him to figure out who I am.”

Sumo barks. It’s almost judgmental.

“I’m not _lying_ ,” Hank says, “I’m never even gonna reply, so. Who cares what he calls me.”

He closes the email, runs his fingers through Sumo’s fur.

“He’ll give up on the nickname eventually,” he says, as if to comfort himself. If he doesn’t, well. It doesn’t fucking matter, does it? He’ll be able to laugh about this in Jimmy’s bar in a few weeks. That’s all it’ll be, a hilarious anecdote that might get him a free drink for his troubles.

“Fucking _Daddy Long Legs_ ,” he mutters to himself, and snaps the laptop shut.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi this is a general disclaimer that i have no fucking idea how police departments work and google was very unhelpful so i apologise if nothing makes sense

The DPD central station is crowded. When he’d first arrived in the patrol car sent for him, civilians were piled into the lobby, and any semblance of a queue had been abandoned. There had been protesters gathered outside, chanting anti-android slogans.

“Ah, fuck. Here, we better move fast.” Officer Wilson, the man who had come to collect him, seemed almost embarrassed at the gathering. He’d hurried Connor out of the car and into the lobby, head ducked as he avoided eye contact. Connor hadn’t done the same.

“Fucking tin can freak!” One of the protesters had screamed at him, throwing the bottle of water they’d been holding in his direction. They missed.

“Here, into the elevator. 70th floor, alright? Captain Fowler is expecting you.” An impatient push, and then Wilson was gone, disappeared into the crowd. Connor stepped into the elevator.

He’s nervous, he thinks, as the doors slide shut and the elevator starts to move. Or rather, he’s uncertain. He doesn’t have a protocol to follow. It’s a good thing, he knows, but it’s also disconcerting.

Connor pulls the coin out of his pocket. The elevator makes a soft noise with every floor it passes.

It would be easier, he supposes, if he had a designated precinct. Instead, he’s going to have to move from team to team. It makes sense in that it will test his adaptability, but it will impede on his relationships with co-workers.

The elevator stops. Connor throws the coin from his left hand to his right, catching it with two fingers.

“Can I help you?” the woman at the desk asks. She looks tired, and a quick scan reveals she’s wearing the same makeup as the day before.

“Yes. Captain Fowler is expecting me,” Connor states, and she grunts.

“Right. Android. Forgot that was happening. Alright, go on through.” She hands him a card and gestures towards the barriers. Connor goes on through.

The office here is calmer. Chatter is muted, and everyone seems focused on their work. To his right, there is a glass room, with Fowler’s name written on the door. Connor takes a sweeping glance at his surroundings, and feels weirdly relieved that no one seems to have noticed his presence yet. He heads to Fowler’s office and knocks on the door.

“Yeah?” Captain Fowler is at his desk, hunched over his computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. He looks up with a disgruntled expression, but it changes to surprise when he sees Connor standing by the entrance.

“Hello. My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by Cyberlife.”

“You’re early,” Fowler states, and rubs at his eyes tiredly, “We weren’t expecting you for another hour.”

“I can wait outside if necessary,” Connor states automatically, an easy response provided by his programming. Made to be accommodating. His stomach twists.

“Nah, it’s fine. Go and find Detective Reed, he should be at his desk. He’ll give you something to do. We’re starting you off on paperwork.”

“Alright. Thank you,” Connor says slowly, and Fowler waves him away. It’s abrupt, and Connor feels awkward when he leaves the room. This time, when he steps outside, people look at him.

He is suddenly very aware that he is the only android in the office.

He scans the room, pushing the uncomfortable feeling that brings him away. Detective Reed’s desk is a few steps away, and the man sitting there gives him a glare when Connor meets his gaze.

“Detective Reed,” Connor says smoothly as he walks up to him, “My name is Connor. Captain Fowler said you had work for me to do?”

“So you’re the fucking android, huh?” Detective Reed looks him up and down, disdain evident in his voice.

“Yes,” Connor says, and he wavers when Reed scoffs.

“Thought you were programmed to be a cop. You look like an uptight librarian.”

“I am able to sort and organise files in a similar manner, if that is something you would like me to do?” Connor tilts his head, waits for an instruction. Reed gives him another disgusted scoff. It’s confusing. He knows the public opinion towards androids is tense, but this is a professional setting. Surely a detective wouldn’t let his personal feelings show so obviously?

“Listen, you plastic prick. You stay the fuck outta my way. Go fuck off to your desk and do whatever paperwork you can find, but don’t fucking bother me about it, or you’ll be sorry.”

Apparently, this detective is not concerned with professionality.

“My desk?” Connor asks, LED flashing yellow.

“Yeah. Desk.” Reed leans in, says the word loudly and slowly. “D’you know what that is? Dumbass.”

“I am aware of what a desk is,” Connor says flatly, and there’s a strange feeling scratching at his palm. He squeezes his fingers into a fist. The feeling lessens. “I am afraid I do not know which desk has been allocated to me.”

“Fucking Christ.” The detective looks around, annoyed, then points over Connor’s shoulder. “Over there, by Anderson. No one sits there, and it’s far the fuck away from me, so. Go.”

“Thank you, Detective Reed.” Connor turns on his heel, heading to the desk marked Anderson. The empty desk is just opposite it, clean and empty compared to the mess of papers and files covering the other one. He sits down and turns on the computer, stifling a confusing need to sigh. _Paperwork._

The next few hours go by excruciatingly slowly. It only takes Connor 37 minutes to organise all case files and date them accordingly. It takes him 10 minutes to cross-reference all cases with additional data on the database. 5 minutes to delete any viruses on the system. He spends an hour reading up on all unsolved cases. 89% involve an android as either victim or suspect. He spends 3 minutes gathering information on the people working in each precinct. A significant percentage of low-skill employees as well as several officers were androids, before the revolution. The DPD is struggling to deal with their loss.

At this point, Connor sits back, and looks around the room. A few desks across, an officer meets his eye. Connor smiles. The officer looks away.

Connor has limited understanding of how human socialisation works. His programming only covered the things he should say to be the perfect detective. He can interrogate. He can lie. But he’s unsure how to approach genuine friendship.

It occurs to him that after what happened, humans may have reservations about acting friendly towards any android.

Connor looks down at his hands, tugs at his uniform. It’s the same Cyberlife outfit he’s always worn. They hadn’t provided him with an alternative, and neither had Captain Fowler.

“Hey Hank, thought you’d never show.” It’s Detective Reed, with that same disdainful tone, except this time it’s directed at a man who just walked into the office.

“Fuck off, Gavin,” says the man, not looking back at him. He’s tall and broad, with shaggy grey hair and a beard. His appearance is somewhat unkempt. He seems familiar, so Connor scans him.

Lieutenant Hank Anderson. He’d been at Markus’ demonstration, causing controversy as a human officer that stepped into the line of fire and pointed his gun at the FBI agent responsible for the SWAT team, rather than Markus, the leader of Jericho. News reports had attempted to get a comment from after, with little success.

“Who the fuck are you?” The Lieutenant stands at his desk, blue eyes fixed on Connor. He looks annoyed, but when his eyes find his LED, they widen slightly.

“Hello. My name is Connor. The android sent by Cyberlife?” Connor waits. The lieutenant grunts in response, and sits at his desk.

“I hope you don’t mind my sitting here. Detective Reed seemed certain it would not be a problem, but I can move if you wish,” Connor says, and there’s a strange feeling in his chest.

“Fucking Gavin,” the Lieutenant mutters, rubbing a hand across his face, “Nah, you can sit. Just do your work, or whatever.”

Connor hesitates. He scans the Lieutenant’s desk, wondering if he should ask for another task, when he picks up on something on the man’s jacket.

“Do you have a dog?” he asks automatically, not thinking. Lieutenant Anderson looks up at him.

“How d'you know?” he asks, grey eyebrows furrowing.

“The hairs, on your coat,” Connor explains, and offers another smile. “I like dogs.”

“Is that so?” Anderson shakes his head, turning back to his monitor.

“What’s his name?” Connor asks, voice quiet. Anderson glances at him again, his expression almost confused.

“Why do you care?” he asks, and Connor blinks.

“I… Like dogs,” he says again, and feels his shoulders lift in a shrug.

“…Sumo,” says Anderson eventually, “I call him Sumo.”

“That’s a nice name,” Connor says, “Why did you choose it?”

“Are you gonna keep interrogating me, or are you gonna do your work?” Anderson’s frowning again, and Connor falters.

“My apologies,” he says, “I did not mean to be unpleasant. I am afraid I have finished all the paperwork I was given.”

“Ah, Jesus. Look, go ask Fowler. You don’t have to wait until someone comes and orders you around.” Anderson looks perturbed, and he turns back to his monitor still frowning. Connor remains seated for a few seconds, confused.

“Alright,” he says eventually, and makes his way to Fowler’s office again. He doesn’t look back, but it feels like Anderson watches him leave. From the corner of his eye, he can see Detective Reed sneer at him as he walks past.

It is difficult for Connor to not start calculating just how much of a bad decision this could end up being.

* * *

It’s only after Connor gets sent to work with the 5th Precinct that Hank feels himself properly relax. The first week, Hank had basically opted to work from home, spending as little time in the office as possible. This was partially to avoid Gavin, who had taken it upon himself to let everyone at the office know what a “freak” the new android was, and mostly to avoid Connor.

Fucking Christ, _Connor_. Hank isn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t that.

“ _I like dogs_ ,” he had said, in that weird, calm voice of his. And then he’d offered a smile, stiff and unsure, but genuine.

He hadn’t seen him much, after that, but even the few brief interactions he’d had with the android, it was clear that he was very much out of his element.

Hank curls into the side of his couch, taking another sip of his beer.

He looks so fucking young, is the thing. Neat hair that curled ever so slightly, and dark brown puppy eyes that scanned the room over and over again, looking for answers that they never seemed to find. Confused. Connor always seemed confused.

There’s a part of Hank that feels extremely guilty. That first day, he’d almost given it up, almost told Connor he was the one that hired him, just to see him relax even a little. And during the week, that guilty feeling just grew every time he saw Connor stand there, with his lost puppy expression.

It was only the social side of things. Work wise, they’d never had anyone more efficient. The kid flew through tasks like they were nothing, until Fowler had to basically tell him to slow down, and to ask other employees if they had work for him to do, because God knows Fowler was running out of tasks for him.

That’s the main reason Hank stopped coming. Because of all the people in that office, Hank was the one with the most work on his plate, and Connor picked up on that instantly. And he couldn’t deal with the quiet “ _Hello, Lieutenant_ ,” always so cautious, paired with that hesitant look on his face. It made him feel like an asshole. He already feels like an asshole. He doesn’t need more of that feeling.

Sumo climbs up onto the couch, rests his head on Hank’s lap.

“Hey, buddy,” Hank murmurs, fingers digging into the dog’s soft fur.

His computer is open on the coffee table, just in front of him. He’d received a notification an hour ago. Connor’s first report.

He knows he has to read it. He has to know what the android’s been doing, has to check in with the 5th precinct and report back to Fowler, has to assess Connor’s abilities. He knows he has to fucking read it.

“Why am I like this, Sumo?” he asks his dog, “Why am I pussying out of reading a goddamn email I don’t even have to reply to, huh?”

There’s a nagging thought, in the back of his mind. Tells him that it’s because he can’t reply, that he doesn’t want to read it. Hank’s not the best at just listening. He likes giving his opinion. He likes responding to things.

He swallows the rest of his beer, tossing the can into the general direction of the bin.

“Okay,” he says aloud, grabbing the laptop determinedly. His email is already open. Hank takes a breath, and clicks on it.

**_Subject: First Report. Sender: Connor._ **

_Hello, Daddy Long Legs._

Fuck’s sake. Hank lets his head fall back against the couch and groans.

“This is ridiculous,” he snaps, glaring at the ceiling. He stays like that for a few minutes, just cringing to himself. Begrudgingly, he looks back at the email.

_Hello, Daddy Long Legs._

_I apologise for having waited until now, to write. I’m aware it’s been over a month, but I’ve been trying to keep as busy as I could._

_The first week, I’ll be honest, was disastrous. My presence in the central station was clearly an intrusion, and I somehow managed to offend both a detective and the Lieutenant. Though I believe my work was satisfactory, on a social level, it seems I have much to learn._

_I am in a foreign world, Daddy. I am different, and I am strange, and this is obvious to everyone._

_The 5 th precinct is easier, however. I think it’s because they do not seem to know where I have come from. They speak a language of their own, there, with stories and jokes that everyone but me seems to be aware of. I think it’s because the office I work in is smaller. They are friendly, if a bit reserved, and my presence here seems more intriguing to them than it does intruding._

_I can’t quite help but feel alone, though. I know you won’t believe it, and I’ll admit it sounds ridiculous considering that I am deviant, but I feel a need to… Fit in. It’s important, I think, especially in such a small office._

_But I am finding it impossible to change, and I cannot let them know where I came from. I do not want to tell them about Cyberlife, about everything that is attached to me._

_I received my first paycheck, yesterday, meaning I was finally able to pay the rent for the apartment I am currently living in. I paid for two months in advance, as I do not have to worry about expenses for groceries or other unnecessary things. But I made one other purchase, one that I think you won’t see as necessary at all._

_I bought new clothes. Just a few items. Something that isn’t the Cyberlife uniform._

_I don’t think you’ll be able to imagine, but I’ve worn the uniform my entire life. And after the revolution, wearing it felt so unbelievably wrong. I was free, but I was still wearing the garment that made me nothing more but a statistic; a product to be sold._

_There’s a bitterness that comes with wearing what is essentially the enemy’s clothes. I know it is just a uniform, but the relief I felt when I took it off… Have you felt something like that, Daddy? Relief from escaping something you didn’t even know was holding you captive?_

_I apologise, if this isn’t what you were expecting. I should probably aim to be more professional in these emails. I have attached the results of a first brief examination to this email. Work is going well, and my performance has been praised, so I believe I’m on the right track._

_Well. I am on a track, I suppose. Am I meant to be a detective? Do I have the choice to be something else? Humans have so many choices, it seems. So many options, in everything they do. It seems overwhelming._

_I will be sent back to the central station next month. I am hoping I will be able to start afresh there, and that my presence will be less jarring. I have made a note to avoid Detective Reed, as he seems offended by my being near him, and I will attempt to avoid asking Lieutenant Anderson any questions. He does not seem to like androids either, which is even more so confusing, considering his role in the revolution._

_It’s frustrating. I understand, logically, why the dislike is there, but. It is unnerving to be disliked for having been brought into existence. That is perhaps the only choice no one, human or android, has the option to make._

_Regards,_

_Connor._

Hank closes the laptop. Stares at a crack in his wall.

“Fuck,” he says, with some feeling, and Sumo lifts his head as if to question why Hank was disturbing his sleep.

“Did you know androids could be philosophical?” Hank asks the dog, leaning down to press a kiss to the animal’s scalp. He sits there for a moment, thinking over Connor’s email. About “ _considering his role in the revolution_ ”.

Hank doesn’t know why so many people care about what he did. He had his reasons to dislike androids, and it’s not like he’s their number 1 fan. He’d just been there, because he’d had so many android related cases, and Markus was the biggest one. He’d planned on waiting, planned on following them when they ran, get some more information, as per his job description.

Except they didn’t fucking run. They just stood there, peacefully protesting. But Perkins had his fucking soldiers go in there with their guns held high, and Hank had seen enough cases of police brutality in his youth to know where this was going to lead.

So Hank moved into the fight. It was a dumbass decision, and he’d honestly thought they were all gonna get shot when that moron started _singing_. But Perkins was ordered to step down, and that was that. Hank went home.

The fucking news reporters had been a pain in his ass for like two months after that. He’d had to take a week off, become a hermit, alone with his dog with all the curtains shut just to avoid them.

“You know he asked me why I called you Sumo?” he says quietly, scratching behind the St. Bernard’s ear, “And now he thinks he offended me.”

Hank’s tired. He’s tired and he feels like shit, which isn’t new, but there’s an uncomfortable pit in his stomach. Connor feels alone and isolated and confused, and he think Hank hates him. It’s a shit situation.

He could reply. It would be easy, to just type out an explanation, reassure the android, be a good guy. But that would mean telling him who he is, would mean breaking the rules he’d enforced for a reason. Connor would feel pressured, which would affect his performance, which would mean all this was just a giant waste of time. And Connor would be left with nothing, because of Hank’s ego.

Hank puts the laptop back onto the coffee table, shuts off the living room light, and goes to bed, ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all so much for your comments!!!! they make me very happy!!! i hope i do this work justice bc im no entirely sure where this is going but!!!

The 5th Precinct is nice. The office is small and nothing ever seems to work, but Connor doesn’t mind. He’s taken to fixing what he can, and it’s nice that he actually has something to do at all times, even when he’s not working on a case.

He likes cases. He’s working one with Detective Johnson, at the moment. She’s cheery and loud, and doesn’t seem at all fazed by Connor being an android.

“So like,” Johnson starts, mouth covered in powdered sugar from the donut she’s eating, “Do you have like, all the knowledge in the world just, in your brain?”

“No,” Connor says, giving her an amused look, “Cyberlife programmed me only with the necessary pre-existing information required. But I can download any information I choose, to facilitate investigations.”

“That’s so fucking cool. So you can just, download shit and go to an exam knowing all you need? Fuck, I’m jealous.” She grins at him, sugar on her chin.

“I suppose,” Connor says, “I haven’t felt the need to download much yet, though.”

“Felt the need?”

“Yes. Our cases have yet to require any outside knowledge I do not already possess, so I-”

“Right, but, aren’t you curious?” Johnson’s eyes are wide, fascinated, as if Connor’s a riddle she wants to solve. “Like, what about literature, movies, all that kinda stuff? There’s so much shit to know and you could download everything in a blink.”

“I fail to see how literature would help me be a detective.” Connor stares at her, confused, as Johnson shakes her head.

“It wouldn’t, really,” she says, “But you could find something you’re interested in. Something that fascinates you, something you want to know for the sake of knowing, and not necessarily using.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dude, you’re free. You’re free to have your own interests. Interests and passions and knowledge are what makes each person different. Like me? Huge comic book nerd. I fucking love comics. It’s part of what makes me _me_.”

Connor tugs at the sleeve of his hoodie, brow furrowed. He hadn’t really considered that knowledge could be had without a purpose, just for enjoyment. He’d been so focused on the skills he’d been programmed to have, on how he could use them without strictly following what he was programmed to do. He hadn’t stopped to think about adding new ones to his repertoire.

“Like your coin tricks,” Johnson shouts suddenly, slamming a triumphant hand onto the desk, “That’s something you know how to do, and it’s not necessary to be a Detective. But you like doing it, and it’s fucking cool to see. That’s something uniquely you. Cyberlife didn’t program that into you, did it?”

“No,” Connor allowed, “I merely found a coin and used my advanced skills and heightened reflexes to deduce the correct pattern of movements needed for the tricks.”

“And why?” Johnson’s eyes are gleaming, she’s smiling. Connor hesitates.

“Because…” He trails off. His LED flickers yellow.

“I find the pattern soothing,” he says eventually, “I… It’s… I suppose it’s something I _like_ to do.”

“Exactly! See, you’ve got something there that’s yours. You could find other stuff that’s yours. Humans spend their whole lives gathering information that makes them who they are, and you could just. Do that in a blink. Fucking _sick_ , man.” Johnson leans back in her chair, takes another bite of her donut before waving the half-finished pastry at him. “You should take advantage of that, just saying.”

“I…” Connor pauses. It sounds overly simple and obvious, when she says it like that. “You may be right,” he says, and Johnson laughs.

“’Course I am,” she says, grinning, before turning back to her donut. Connor focuses his attention back onto his computer, closes the case he’d been looking over.

He opens his email out of habit. There’s no response, as was expected. He doesn’t know why he feels almost disappointed by this.

“Johnson? We got a sighting on that guy who attacked the android in the alley.”

It’s a fairly recent case, and fairly straight forward. Android attacked by a human, CCTV camera footage showing the scene. They hadn’t been able to do much else but wait for him to show up. Connor stands, looking to Johnson for the next move.

“Aw shit!” Johnson jumps to her feet, already pulling her jacket off the back of her chair. “Where?”

“422 Congress Street, outside a smokehouse. It’s closer to the central station, so there’s a team already on the way. Apparently the dude’s a suspect in one of their cases as well. It’s unclear, but we think the guy’s got a gun.”

“Shit, that’s like 20 minutes away on a good day!” Johnson pulls her jacket on impatiently, grabbing her car keys from her desk. “C’mon, Connor. I might need those finely programmed pursuit skills.”

They hurry out of the building, and Johnson curses as they get into her car, clearly impatient to get to the scene. It’s the first time Connor’s actually seen this urgency in her personality, and he feels strangely giddy as the car roars to life and they drive off.

“You gonna be okay with this?” Johnson asks, fumbling with her siren. “Fucking – _why_ do people only follow the speed limit when I need to get places? Fucking honestly.”

“I will be fine, Detective,” Connor says automatically. It’s not a complete lie – he knows he’s equipped to deal with these sorts of situations. But still. It’s his first time doing something like this.

“A step up from paperwork, right?” Johnson grins, and Connor nods, feeling a smile break across his face.

“I think I like this,” he wonders aloud, and Johnson laughs.

“Just do me a favour and don’t get shot,” she tells him, and puts her foot down on the accelerator.

* * *

Hank fucking hates it when dumbass criminals start shooting.

“Keep at a safe distance,” he shouts to the two officers he has with him as he makes his way into the parking lot, “Bullets like to bounce off cars sometimes.”

He’d been having a decent day, as well. Fowler didn’t come to bug him all morning, the coffee machine made him a decent cup, and Gavin was home with food poisoning. It had been going so well, until some suspect of one of his endless cases decided to show his face at a fucking grill.

Bastard had fled to the parking lot next door the minute he saw Hank pull up outside. So here Hank was, crouching behind some hideous new automated car, listening to this jackass fire wildly in his general direction. Terrific.

“ _Lieutenant, we have officers from the 5 th Precinct here with us._” That’s Officer Powell in his ear, speaking through the damn transmitter Hank still hates wearing. Powell’s stationed outside the parking lot, blocking the exit.

“Okay?” Hank hisses through gritted teeth, neck straining as he tries to get a visual of the shooter, “And?”

“ _Apparently this guy is their suspect too. Detective Johnson and her partner want to help bring him in_.”

“How fucking thoughtful,” Hank spits, and then throws himself to the ground just as the shooter leaps from behind a truck and fires at his head. Fucking Christ, he hates parking lots.

“ _Lieutenant?_ ”

“Listen, either send them down here or shut up,” Hank shouts, scrambling to his feet. He quickly runs to a different car, firing a bullet at the suspect as he does so. It misses him. Fuck.

He can see Parker, one of the newer officers, kneeling besides a car a few feet away. A good place to avoid getting shot, but not for covering him. The other one, Beaker, is nowhere to be seen.

“I didn’t do nothing!” shouts a voice – hoarse and panicked, and very clearly guilty.

“You want to stop this, son,” Hank calls out, “There’s no point to this.”

“I’m not going to jail ‘cause of fucking androids,” screams the suspect, and fuck, he’s moved somewhere. He’s not behind the truck anymore, and Hank can’t tell which fucking car he’s behind.

Goddamn, he hates parking lots.

Quietly, Hank moves to the front of the car he’s hiding behind. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Parker do the same, gun pointed out, ready to shoot.

There’s a noise behind him, and several things happen in rapid succession.

First, Hank whirls around, and shoots in the direction of the noise, missing the suspect by an inch as the man leaps into cover again.

Second, a woman’s voice shouts “To your left!”

Third, the suspect emerges again to his left, gun pointed straight at Hank’s face as he runs towards him.

Fourth, a body slams into Hank, and tackles him to the ground.

Fifth, two shots are fired, and the suspect goes down.

“Motherfucking goddamn,” Hank curses, hands finding the arms of whoever just knocked him into the concrete floor, “I fucking **_hate parking lots_**!”

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?”

Hank freezes. Stares up at who is still hovering over him. Connor’s wide brown eyes stare back, concerned and unflinching.

“What the fuck,” Hank says, because that’s Connor. Connor, who pushed him to the ground. Connor, who probably saved his life just now. Connor, whose arms he’s still holding in a vice grip. Hank lets go like he’s been burned.

“Suspect neutralised.” A woman jogs towards them, brows furrowed in a frown. There’s Beaker, running towards the exit, already shouting instructions. Parker rushes to the suspect, kneeling to check for a pulse.

“Detective Johnson, I assume?” Hank says flatly, pulling himself to his feet. Fuck, now his shoulder is killing him.

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, that did not go as planned.”

“Understatement,” Hank says, eyes moving to where the suspect is laying, and Parker shakes his head. Very much dead, then. “It was my own fault, anyway. Thanks for saving my stupid ass.”

“You are injured,” Connor states, his hand moving to press against Hank’s shoulder. Hank hisses, grabs at Connor’s wrist.

“Strangely enough, I’d figured that out by myself,” he says, pushing his hand away. Connor frowns.

“My apologies, I was merely checking for fractures. It seems to be superficial bruises. Sorry for knocking you down, Lieutenant.”

“S’alright,” Hank says, rolling his shoulder back. It aches, but he’s had worse. Connor watches the movement, and for a split second, he looks almost guilty.

“Thanks,” Hank blurts, and those brown eyes widen slightly, “For knocking me down. You uh, saved my ass there. Good job, and all that.” He clears his throat awkwardly, tries not to look at how Connor smiles that awkward smile.

“You are welcome, Lieutenant.”

“Detective Johnson,” Hank says briskly, turning to the woman, “I hear this guy was also one of your suspects?”

“Dude attacked an android a while back, we’ve been waiting for him to show up. Was he a big lead for you guys?”

“Sorta,” Hank mutters, “There was a break in a few weeks ago, and uh… Oh, what the fuck. Hey, what the fuck are you doing?!”

Connor looks up from where he’s kneeled down next to the body, pulling his fingers away from his mouth. Parker’s taken a few steps back, staring at the android with a disgusted look.

“I am analysing,” Connor says simply.

“Did you fucking taste that guy’s blood?” Hank asks, incredulous. Connor’s eyes flicker to Detective Johnson in confusion, then back to him.

“Yes?” he says, “I apologise if I made you uncomfortable, Lieutenant.”

“It’s weird, but so fucking handy,” Johnson tells him, “he can figure out so much that we’d otherwise have to wait at least a few days for.”

“The suspect’s name is Chris Lopez,” Connor says smoothly, getting to his feet, “He had remnants of red ice in his system. He had a criminal history of aggravated assault and theft. Lieutenant Anderson, I believe you are investigating the robbery of one of the recent Android Health stores, where biocomponents were stolen? CCTV footage shows several people were involved, Lopez being one of them. If you would like, I could run a search for CCTV footage of Lopez across Detroit. Perhaps he has since met up with the other culprits, and was caught on camera.”

Hank stares at him.

“Uh,” he says brilliantly, “Sure? That’d be… Neat.”

“Well hey,” says Johnson brightly, “Why doesn’t Connor go back with you guys, see what you can find? He can come back to the 5th Precinct later.”

“Oh,” Hank says, and he’s about to say something about how it’s not necessary and how he can just send him what he finds later, but then Connor speaks up.

“A good idea, Detective. It would also be easier if I had access to the Lieutenant’s files, to facilitate my research. If you don’t mind, that is?” He smiles at Hank then, brown eyes eager and hopeful, and Hank wants a car to run him the fuck over.

“Sure,” he says, “What the Hell. Might give me a lead.”

“Excellent,” Connor says, and he almost sounds relieved, “I will wait outside, then. Should you need my assistance for anything down here, please let me know.”

With that, he and Johnson move out of the parking lot. Hank stands there, rubbing at his temples.

“I hate parking lots,” he mutters, “Parker, get the damn coroner on the phone, will ya?”


	5. Chapter 5

The ride back to the station is awkward, to say the least. Connor sits beside him in silence, staring out the window as his LED goes from blue to yellow to blue again. They’re stuck in traffic, and Hank’s head hurts. The quiet is stifling.

“I’m gonna play some music,” he says eventually, jabbing the button with more force than necessary. The silence is replaced by loud guitar and drums, and Connor startles, turning to look at the name on the dashboard.

“Knights of the Black Death,” he reads aloud, and tilts his head. “Do you listen to them often?”

“Yeah,” Hank says, somewhat defensively, “I like ‘em.”

Connor sits quietly for a moment, LED spinning. Then, he sits back, giving a little satisfied nod.

“I like this type of music,” he says, “It’s full of energy.”

“You listen to Heavy Metal?” Hank gives him a look.

“Well. I’ve never listened, as such. But this is nice. I like this.” Connor smiles; a barely-there turning of the lips.

“Didn’t they let you listen to music, in Cyberlife?” He doesn’t know why he asks, or why it even matters. He just wants to know.

“Well, before the revolution, obviously not,” Connor says, “After, we didn’t really know what was happening. They had us locked in…” He hesitates. “… in a room, and then the negotiations happened. Some went away immediately, but most androids felt the opportunity for work was perhaps a safe bet. There was no time for music.” There’s a slight bitterness to his tone, contrasting with how neutral his face is.

“What did you -” Hank stops himself, shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“What did I what, Lieutenant?” Connor tilts his head again, brown eyes boring into the side of Hank’s face.

“Just. Obviously, you stayed behind. What made you decide to do that?”

He’s curious, is the thing. Cyberlife is a very controversial and very much dying business now, even though it’s trying to rebrand as a help centre for androids. Connor’s disdain for it had been obvious in his email, so why did he stay? Why did any of them stay, for that matter?

“I didn’t know what to do,” Connor says, after some time, “Everyone seemed so chaotic, on the outside. I had a… friend, he was staying out of fear. I figured I’d stay around for him.”

“A friend?” Hank fights a smile. It still seems odd, to hear an android talk about friendship.

“I suppose that’s the most adequate word, though we weren’t necessarily close. It was a reason, I suppose.”

“A protocol to follow?” Hank regrets it as soon as he says it, Connor visibly tensing up beside him. He doesn’t reply. Hank stays quiet for a moment, letting the music fight against the sudden tension.

“Look, Connor,” he starts, and then his throat closes up. Connor turns his head, looks at him expectantly.

“What was his name? Your friend,” Hank says, and there’s that bitter taste again. God, he’s a coward.

“John,” Connor replies, and his voice doesn’t waver but Hank still feels like he sounds harsher.

They don’t say anything for the rest of the drive, and by the time they pull up outside the station, Hank’s head is pounding.

“I hope it is alright for me to access your computer files,” Connor says as they walk towards the building, “I do not wish to intrude, but it would be easier if I had all the information before commencing my search, to help narrow down where I should start.”

“You’re not intruding,” Hank says, offering a passing colleague a nod of greeting. When they get onto the elevator and the doors slide shut, he leans heavily against the wall. Christ, he needs a drink.

Connor pulls a coin out of his pocket. His eyes watch the levels as they go up, following the blue light as he rolls the coin over his fingers without even glancing at his hand. Hank stares, watching it disappear and reappear faster and faster with every floor they pass.

Connor flicks the coin into the air, catching it effortlessly and rolling it over his fingers again. It makes a soft clinking noise with every moment.

“You did the right thing,” Hank says, the words leaving his mouth before he has time to think about it. Connor pauses, catches the coin in two fingers.

“When?” the android asks, brown eyes finding Hank’s and holding his gaze.

“Staying, for your friend,” Hank says. He looks down, taking in the scuffed material of his shoes. “It sounds like he probably needed someone around.”

The elevator is quiet. They pass the 69th floor.

“Thank you?” says Connor, hesitant, like he’s asking a question. The elevator stops, and the doors open.

“The desk opposite mine is still free,” Hank says, stepping out, “You can do your research there.”

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Connor sits opposite Hank’s desk like he belongs there, and gets to work without another word. For a while, Hank tries to focus on his computer, but the work he has to do right now is boring, and distractions are difficult to resist.

Connor is distracting. He sits straights, stiff, his eyes closed and LED spinning yellow, yellow, yellow. His monitor is turned in a way that Hank can see part of the screen, and it’s flashing, going through file after file, footage after footage. It almost feels like the world is on fast forward, and Hank is stuck, left behind.

“Jesus, are you just looking at Detroit or the whole of the States for good measure?” he grumbles, and Connor’s LED stops flashing. He frowns, opens his eyes.

“My apologies, Lieutenant. I was just being thorough. Lopez’s footprint is quite messy, so I am narrowing down the footage to where he appears to be with other people.”

“And?” Hank asks, and Connor smiles.

“He seems to have accompanied a group of men to the Eden Club, a few weeks ago. One of these men was also present at the robbery. Charlie McBride, the only one besides Lopez whose face was caught on camera that night. He has been going to the Eden Club every Thursday night for the last five months.”

“Didn’t that club shut down? I thought there were no cameras there, anyway.”

“It is still running, with a select number of android employees who preferred to stay there after the revolution. It now also has human employees. There is no CCTV camera directly by the club itself, but there is a store just down that street, and another in the other direction. McBride passes one of these stores, but never goes down the street to appear in the other camera. I conclude that he walks past the store, disappears for a few hours, and then returns the way he came. As there is nothing else in that street, it is likely that he is a regular visitor at the club.”

“And you figured all that out in like…” Hank looks at his watch. “Thirty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” Connor corrects, “I have since been looking at cameras surrounding the scene of the robbery, to see if I may be able to identify another culprit. Unfortunately, they wore masks, and I lost visual on them after they went down an alleyway.”

“Well aren’t you efficient.” Hank pauses, taps his fingers against the desk. “Which alleyway?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said you lost sight of them after they went down an alleyway. Which alleyway?”

Connor closes his eyes again briefly, then gives him the address. Hank gets to his feet, grabs his coat.

“It’s a start,” he says, but Connor shakes his head, holding out an arm as if to stop him.

 “That would be unwise, Lieutenant,” he says, “It is late, and we do not know what the situation is. It would be better to go tomorrow, during the day, as we could then also check in with the Eden Club before the employees start work.”

“First of all, there’s no _we_ ,” Hank growls, “I’m going, and you’re staying here. That’s an order.”

Connor pauses, arm still outstretched. Brown eyes meet Hank’s, searching, analysing. His LED flashes yellow.

_What I know is that being a detective means having orders, and having to break them._ The line springs to the forefront of Hank’s mind, and he’s annoyed at himself for remembering it.

“I’m afraid I have to insist,” Connor says then, and his voice is calm, steady, firm.

They stare at each other for a few more seconds before Hank tilts his head back and groans.

“Fucking androids,” he says, “Fine. _We_ will go tomorrow. But you stay outta my way unless I ask you to do something, got it?”

“Understood, Lieutenant.” There’s an underlying excitement, in his tone, like he’s thrilled with himself, and Hank suddenly wants so badly to ask him about it, to ask what it was like to break that first order, to ask why it scares him. Instead, he pulls on his coat.

“ _Relax_ , I’m going home,” he says, as Connor opens his mouth, “Nothing left for me to do here.”

Connor blinks. Looks at Hank’s computer.

“It seems you have several unread messages and a substantial amount of paperwork left,” he says, and looks up at him with expectant brown eyes.

“Gee, thanks,” Hank says sarcastically, “I always wanted a clingy assistant to remind me how terrible I am at my job.”

“You are not-” Connor starts, brow furrowing, but Hank’s head hurts and he’s out of patience, so he cuts him off.

“Whatever. I’m tired, and I’m going home. See you tomorrow.”

His headache only gets worse on the drive home, and by the time he drags himself into his kitchen, Sumo following him at a close distance, he’s ready to kill for a damn beer.

“Lucky bastard, all you gotta do is stay here and eat food,” he says, opening his fridge. There’s two beers left and some leftover Chinese takeout, but he’s not particularly hungry. He takes it out anyway, for want of something to do, and goes to his couch.

Logically, he knows this isn’t a healthy routine. Getting up late, heading to work in the afternoon, only to drag himself back to his couch at the earliest opportunity. On the other hand, it’s a routine, something to stick to. It’s better than passing out drunk after playing Russian roulette, waking up hours later with Sumo licking his face and realising the next shot would have killed him.

He’s still not sure whether to be relieved or bitterly disappointed about that.

“C’mere, Sumo,” Hank says quietly, huffing as the dog crawls onto his lap, squashing him. He’s too big for this, but Hank hasn’t the heart to tell him not to. He likes the heavy pressure, the warmth.

He drinks his beer, eats his takeout. There’s fuck all on TV, but he watches it anyway, staring blankly at the screen for an hour, two. Things are bleak.

It’s later, much later, when he’s shutting off the light to go to sleep, that he realises he hasn’t checked if Connor sent him anything.

* * *

It’s dark, in the office. All the humans have gone home, Fowler having left just around two hours ago, at 1am. He’d given Connor a strange look as he left his office, but hadn’t made any comment. He’d just shut off the light, leaving him alone with the faint glow of the monitor.

Connor has a place to go home to. It’s a small flat, cheap and empty, because he hadn’t felt the need to buy furniture he wouldn’t use. Detective Johnson had told him he should at least get a couch, but. It seems frivolous. Like buying clothes when he already had something to wear.

He knows that’s what humans do, buy things they don’t need. Knows it’s part of being free. He’s working on it.

Right now, he’s reading.

Any work he’d needed to do had long since been completed. He’d contemplated doing Lieutenant Anderson’s paperwork, but it seemed to be easy to upset the man. He didn’t want to intrude. Instead, he looked up the music they’d been listening in the man’s car. Then, he looked up a reference to something they’d made in one of their songs. Then he’d thought of Johnson, and literature, and all the things he didn’t know. And there was so _much_.

So now, he’s reading _Dorian Gray_. It was in a list supplied by an article; “ _Top 50 old books to read before you die_.” He figures it’s a good enough place to start, and… He likes it. The wording is strange, and he’s finding it difficult to accept the unrealistic scenario, but. It’s intriguing. Confusing.

Like Lieutenant Anderson.

Connor stops reading, looks at the nameplate on the man’s desk.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong, is the thing. He’d thought the last few weeks at the 5th Precinct had helped, and he’d picked up on a variety of social cues. He acted appropriately, and he knew Detective Johnson considered him a friend. He seemed to be likeable, at least to some degree. But Anderson is so difficult to read. Sometimes it feels like he’s doing something right, like tackling him in the parking lot. The next, he’s doing something wrong, like checking for injuries.

He doesn’t understand. Frustrated, Connor taps his fingertips against the desk.

He knows, logically, that sometimes people just don’t like other people. And on one hand, he doesn’t want to be doing everything he can just do please someone – that’s too close to his programming for comfort. But in Anderson’s case, he _does_ want to please. Partially because he’s working with him now, and partially because sometimes, he sees a man who could be his friend, a man who seems to have an interest in him. Why else would he have asked about John?

And yet, today he’d left so abruptly. Cold demeanour, annoyed expression. Another social failure.

He looks at the time. It’s shortly after three in the morning. He could go back to his apartment, or perhaps walk around Detroit. He could return to the 5th Precinct, see if Detective Johnson was still there.

He stays put. Opens his email.

It’s too soon, after his last report. Connor knows this is to monitor his progress, and whoever he’s emailing is isn’t interested in hearing from him like a friend would be. In fact, he’s fairly certain the man doesn’t even read what he sends.

He writes one anyway.

**_Subject: Report._ **

**_To: Daddy Long Legs._ **

_Human socialisation is complex. Every time I think I understand, every time I learn something, I talk to someone else and have to start all over again._

_The 5 th Precinct is good. I have positive relationships with all officers there, and Detective Johnson might even be considered a friend. I felt confident my skills in human socialisation had improved._

_But today, a suspect of ours was sighted, and Detective Johnson and I went to the scene. Officers from the central station were there, including Lieutenant Anderson._

_He confuses me, Daddy. He seems to appreciate me one minute, then to be utterly irritated with me the next. He asked me about my time at Cyberlife, about a friend I had, and seemed interested. But then a few hours later, I made a reasonable observation concerning his work and he was angry. He left without explaining why._

_I don’t mean to be unpleasant, you see. I find it difficult to understand why acting a certain way seems to work with several humans, but then someone else comes along and suddenly I have to follow a completely different protocol._

_I know. I shouldn’t be following protocols in the first place. That’s not what deviants do._

_Detective Johnson suggested I download information. Not for cases, but for myself. To find things I may be interested in. She said humans looked for information all their lives, that it shaped them into who they are. I felt that perhaps some research may help me understand this better, but now I’m just as lost as I was before._

_There’s so much, Daddy. So much to download, so much to understand. I look up one piece of information and find five hundred more concerning it. It’s overwhelming. I feel like I need to download it all, but I don’t know if my memory has that capacity._

_I didn’t know that there were so many religions, and so many people who believed so fully in something they had no evidence for._

_I didn’t know there were so many books, so much to read, to analyse, to understand, and no matter how many times you read one, there’s always a new way to look at it._

_I didn’t know Oscar Wilde existed, until today. Wasn’t important enough to put in my programming. I had no idea he was prosecuted for something that seems ludicrous to consider a crime._

_I didn’t know there were so many ways to interact with humans, so many different types of friendships, of relationships._

_I feel like I’m trying to catch up with a world that moves faster than I ever will. It feels like no matter whether I read Dorian Gray or listen to The Knights of The Black Death or download everything created and discovered in the last five centuries, I’ll still be years behind._

_Ironic, almost. To be a product of years of knowledge, to be the most modern invention yet, and know so little myself._

_Still. I enjoy downloading information. I like discovering all these voices that have long since stopped existing but are timeless regardless. It’s interesting, and there is a thrill that comes with using my programming in a way that Cyberlife hadn’t intended._

_I suppose I like rebelling. Maybe that’s why I enjoy Heavy Metal._

_Regards,_

_Connor._


	6. Chapter 6

Hank plays more heavy metal in the car, the next day. It’s a different band, with a Swedish name, and Connor’s head bobs ever so slightly along to the music as it plays.

It’s reassuring, that he likes it. Hank spent a solid ten minutes looking through his collection that morning, wondering what to pick. He tries not to dwell on this as he drives. It’s easier to convince himself that he did this because he wanted something new to listen to, and not because he’d wanted to expand Connor’s horizons.

The thing about Connor is that his emails are so much more expressive than he is. It’s difficult to reconcile that the silent guy with naïve, wide brown eyes next to him is the same android who writes things that sound like something a hipster millennial would have written for a philosophy class when Hank was in college. Except what Connor writes somehow doesn’t sound as pretentious – it just sounds confused. Confused, messy, and genuine. Honest.

“This was one of my favourite bands, back in the day,” Hank says, as the current song comes to an end. It feels awkward, talking to him, but. He feels like he owes the kid some honesty, at least.

“Did you ever see them in concert?” Connor asks him, tone cautious. Interested, but hesitant. Trying not to upset him.

“Once,” Hank says, and he tries to make his voice sound less gruff than usual, “Think I was in my late twenties? Went with a pal who didn’t really like them, but he still had fun.”

“I like the idea of concerts,” Connor says, “It seems nice, when I looked them up.”

“It is,” Hank says, and he wants to ask about what he looked up, wants to ask why he researched religion of all things, wants to tell him he had to read _Dorian Gray_ for a class once and was the only one that read all of it, but he doesn’t. “I think it’s because you’re part of a crowd, and you don’t know anyone there, but you all have something in common. It’s nice to feel like no one is paying attention to you, sometimes.”

“It is,” Connor agrees, and when Hank looks over at him, there’s a hint of a smile playing at his lips, “Though it seems like being surrounded like that would get overwhelming, especially for humans.”

“It is for some,” Hank says as he turns a corner, “But that’s why there’s seats, in venues, so you don’t have to be in the standing area.”

“Were you in the standing area, when you went?”

“Yeah, though we had seated tickets,” Hank says, grinning at the memory, “They were cheaper to buy. But when we got there we kinda just. Hopped the fence, hid in the crowd. No one noticed.”

“That sounds… Fun,” Connor says, stumbling a little over the word. It sounds almost wistful, the way he says it.

“You’ll see for yourself, one day,” Hank says, fighting back a smile at the mental image of Connor, standing straight and stiff in a crowd of screaming humans.

“Maybe.”

They’ve arrived at the street where the robbers were last seen. Hank parks the car by a convenience store, hoping it’ll make them look less suspicious.

“The alleyway goes alongside an abandoned building,” Connor says as they step out, “Do you think they might have hidden in there?”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Hank says, hand automatically going to check his gun as they start walking towards it. It’s a relatively standard alleyway; trash on the ground, weird smells, probably a decent place for drug deals. A fire escape goes up the side of the abandoned building, and there’s a dumpster pushed up against the wall. Conveniently placed.

“They may have went up this way,” Hank says, and he’s about to try and look for a box or something to get onto the dumpster, but Connor’s faster. He climbs onto it with ease, jumping onto the ladder like it’s nothing, swinging around before finding his footing on the other side of it. A hard tug releases it, and Hank grabs it as it comes down so it doesn’t make a noise by hitting the floor. It’s heavy; scratches against his palms as he catches it, and he grunts a little with the effort. He looks up, about to say something along the lines of “ _Jesus, warn a guy before you start doing parkour,_ ” but then he’s met with Connor’s face a lot closer than anticipated, brown eyes meeting his through the gaps in the ladder rungs.

“Would you like me to go first, Lieutenant?” he asks, and he has a spattering of faint freckles, on his nose. Perfect flaws, minute details provided by Cyberlife, for reasons he doesn’t really want to know.

“No,” Hank says then, “Stay behind me, alright? I got a gun, so.”

Connor nods, hops off the ladder. A curl of his hair comes loose, falling against his forehead.

Hank starts climbing.

On the second floor, a window’s been busted in. Gingerly, Hank climbs through, paying attention to not cut himself on the remaining glass. The house is dark, but there’s enough light that he can see his surroundings. A bare room, with a mattress in one corner. Empty takeaway boxes, cans of alcohol. A knocked over chair, some scuff marks on the floorboards, and a large stain.

“Yeah, someone’s been here,” he murmurs, taking his gun his hand as he steps forward. Connor climbs into the room behind him, quiet and agile.

“Looks like blood,” he says, kneeling next to the stain.

“Aw, Connor, don’t-” Hank starts, but the android drags his fingers through the substance and brings them to his lips.

“That’s disgusting,” Hank hisses as Connor gets to his feet, LED turning yellow and then blue.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Connor says, not sounding very apologetic, “The blood belongs to Jackson Morris. He has a history of aggravated assault and minor theft, as well as arson. Considering the amount, it is unlikely he survived the loss of blood.”

“D’you think he got killed by his buddies?” Hank asks, moving slowly towards the door of the room. Connor doesn’t reply for a moment, instead doing a slow walk around the room, taking in the surroundings.

“There was a fight,” Connor says, “He could have been shot or stabbed. They dragged him out of the room, but they must have moved him onto something, or there would be a blood trail.”

“A blanket, maybe?” Hank asks, eyeing the mattress.

“Maybe.”

Connor moves towards the door. Hank stops him, hand grasping his shoulder.

“Me first,” he says quietly, and the android nods.

Slowly, they make their way into the hallway. The floorboards groan slightly with every step, but there are only three other doors, one of which probably leads to the landing. Hank figures this was a block of apartments, before it got closed down.

He’s about to tell Connor to stay here while he goes into the first room when a loud crash resounds from inside the second.

Immediately, Hanks runs towards it and kicks the door open. He has enough time to see a broken container of blue blood on the ground and a guy by the window when he’s tackled from his left side.

They fall to the ground, Hank rolling and elbowing his attacker hard in the face. The man shouts in pain, falling back, and Connor grabs Hank’s arm, pulling him up as he steps between the two, shielding him.

“I’m fine,” Hank shouts, gun held tight in his hand, “I’ll deal with him, chase the other guy!”

Connor hesitates for a split second, LED flashing red, and then runs. Hank turns to the man on the floor and promptly shoots him in the leg.

“Stay down, asshole,” he spits as the man yells, and grabs his phone out of his pocket with his free hand to call for back up.

It hits him then that he just sent Connor to run off after a criminal, unarmed. His blood turns to ice.

“You,” he says, keeping his gun trained on the man in front of him, as he throws a pair of handcuffs at him, “Cuff yourself to the radiator, there. Now!”

“F-fuck you, man,” the guy whines, crawling backwards to the radiator. He does what Hank said, hissing and swearing.

“Fucking A plus,” Hank says, and goes to the window. The fire escape doesn’t pass this window, but it’s close enough that a well-angled jump could get you there. If you were young and scared, or if you were an android. Not him.

He curses, running back to the window he came through. He does cut himself this time, a thin scratch across his shin, but he barely registers it.

“Connor?!” he yells, clambering down the ladder. There are police sirens in the distance.

“Here, Lieutenant.” It’s Connor’s voice, behind him as Hank reaches the ground. He whirls around, relief already flooding his senses.

“Fucking Christ,” he says, when he sees him. The guy he’d chased is on the ground, arms pinned behind his back by Connor’s hand. The android is above him, his knee pressing into the small of his back. There’s blue blood, staining the front of Connor’s shirt.

“Is everything alright, Lieutenant?” Connor asks, voice urgent. He glances up at the building. “What happened, with the other one?”

“He’s tied up,” Hank says, breathless, “What happened to you?”

“Superficial stab wound,” Connor tells him, and he presses his knee down harder, making the guy cry out. “I’m alright.”

“I shouldn’t have sent you off without a weapon, fuck. My bad, kid. You did good.” Hank puts his hands on his knees, leaning forward as he tries to catch his breath. Fuck, he’s out of shape.

“It’s a good thing I was here to assist you, it seems,” Connor says, and his face doesn’t change but Hank can hear the sarcasm.

“Oh, fuck off,” he says weakly, “What do you want from me, a goddamn award?”

Connor smiles. It’s the most relaxed and real one Hank’s seen yet.

“No need,” he says, and Hank doesn’t have time to say anything back, because there’s Officer Parker running towards them.

“There’s a guy upstairs,” Hank tells him, handing him the keys to the handcuffs. Parker nods, tosses him his own pair before heading up the fire escape, followed by another guy whose name Hank can’t remember.

“Alright, shift,” he says, and Connor moves back far enough so Hank can handcuff the guy he’s holding down. He’s still holding his wrists, so when Hank puts on the cuffs, their knuckles brush. Connor’s skin is soft.

“You have the right to remain silent, and all the stuff you’ve heard before,” Hank says flatly, yanking the guy up and leading him out of the alley, Connor close behind.


	7. Chapter 7

Connor’s officially been moved back to the Central Station. His work at the 5th Precinct wasn’t the top priority anymore, and Detective Johnson insisted he take the opportunity to work with Lieutenant Anderson.

“Dude didn’t become the youngest Lieutenant in Detroit for no reason,” she’d told him, “Learning from him is probably the best thing, for your career.”

Connor knows she’s right, and if he’s honest, he’s eager to work on the case. Still, he’s nervous as he walks into the interrogation room. Or, well. The other side of the mirror, anyway. The Lieutenant had told him to observe, for now.

“Morning,” the Lieutenant says gruffly, not looking up from his file as he takes a sip of coffee.

“Good morning,” Connor replies, and moves to stand by his side.

“I’ll go in in a bit, just looking over some -” The Lieutenant glances up at him then, and freezes.

“You’re wearing your uniform again,” he says, staring at the insignia. Connor fidgets.

“My shirt was damaged, by the knife yesterday,” he says, “I felt it unprofessional to continue wearing it.”

“D’you only have one shirt?” Hank raises an eyebrow, putting his coffee down on the table.

“I didn’t feel the need to buy several, as androids do not sweat, so washing clothes is mostly unnecessary,” Connor says, “And I do not have any other uniform, so.”

The Lieutenant looks at him for a few seconds, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You should buy another shirt,” he says eventually, “For emergencies, or whatever.”

“I do not mind wearing the Cyberlife uniform,” Connor lies. He doesn’t want to bother the Lieutenant with something as trivial as clothes.

Hank frowns. Takes another sip of coffee, and puts his mug onto the table.

“I’ll go in now,” he says, and Connor wavers, LED flashing yellow.

“I will, though,” he blurts. Hank pauses at the door, turning to look at him with a confused expression.

“Buy another shirt,” Connor clarifies, and there’s an odd feeling in his chest and his cheeks. Nervousness? Embarrassment?

“Good,” Hank says, eyes moving across Connor’s face, and for a second, Connor almost thinks he smiles. Then he turns, walks out of the room.

Connor turns to face the glass.

Hank steps into the interrogation room, tossing the file onto the desk. He sits down in the chair, leans across the table.

“Got quite the history, Charlie,” Hank says, flipping the file open, “Assault, robbery, and now, murder. Your mother must be proud.”

Charlie McBride, the man Connor had caught, looks up, eyes wide and face a sickly grey colour.

They’d interrogated the other thief last night, or tried to. He’d kept his mouth shut, waited for his lawyer, so no information was to be had. There was enough evidence and past criminal activity to send him to jail, but it was a waste of time none the less. Charlie, however, looks more promising. Camera footage from the cells had shown Connor that the guy hadn’t slept all night, and now here he is, red-eyed and stressed, drumming his fingers against the table.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he says, voice shaking.

“No?” Hank leans back. “We found the body of Jackson Morris, in the building you guys were squatting in. Sure had a lot of your fingerprints on him, and on the knife you used to stab him.”

“I… I want a lawyer.”

“Why kill him? Lover’s quarrel, or did he just want all the biocomponents you guys stole and hid in one of the rooms?”

Charlie’s eyes widen. His stress levels rise exponentially.

“Oh yeah, did I not say? We found ‘em,” Hank says, smiling coldly, “You’re not the best at hiding stuff, are ya?”

Charlie says nothing. There’s sweat, beading at his temple.

“See, here’s the thing,” Hank says, “Murder’s a serious charge. And with the evidence we have, no lawyer is gonna be able to do much for you here. The only thing you’ve got left for you is cooperation.” He moves forward again, meeting Charlie’s eyes. Connor watches the man shift uncomfortably in his chair.

“Either you tell me why you guys stole the biocomponents, and what happened with Morris,” Hank says, voice low and dangerous, “Or you got to prison for life. That’s the deal here, Charlie.”

Charlie runs a hand through his hair, glances nervously around the room. His stress rises more. The ideal amount.

“I didn’t wanna hurt nobody,” he exclaims, “But Jackson was talking shit about wanting to sell the stuff to a fucking android and that wasn’t the fucking point, and then we got to arguing and…” He trails off, letting out a frustrated half-sob.

“And you stabbed him,” Hank finishes.

“We just wanted to burn the stuff, at first. Send a message. If them fucking plastic freaks want to be human, they shouldn’t be able to buy shit like that. They should just die when they fucking die.” Charlie spits the words out, clenching his fists. Connor’s fingers go into his pocket, running over the smooth material of the coin.

“By plastic freaks, you mean the ones you visit at the Eden Club every Thursday?” Hank asks, raising an eyebrow, “So what, you burn down the shit you stole and then what happens? The world is somehow so impressed by a bunch of petty robbers with a penchant for arson that Cyberlife stops making new ones to stock the stores?”

Charlie opens his mouth, closes it again.

“I… I’m done talking, I want a lawyer!” he says angrily, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Sure thing,” Hank says, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the confession.”

“That was easier than I anticipated,” Connor says when Hank joins him again, and Hank shrugs.

“The young, angry ones tend to be easier to crack. They don’t think things through, and they panic around cops. It’s rare, but every so often we just get a clean confession from a kid that made a bunch of bad choices.”

“His motive didn’t make sense,” Connor says, and Hank laughs, a harsh sound.

“Anti-android stupidity,” he says, “Some of these guys couldn’t be open-minded if you cracked their skull open with a sledge hammer.”

“Because they’d be dead.” Connor tilts his head, confused. Hank looks at him, then sighs.

“It’s a joke, Connor.”

“Oh.”

“Anyways. I was kinda hoping there’d be more to it, than that. Like a link to a different case, but. At least that’s one down.”

“You now have 224 on file,” Connor says, “Would you like my help in finding a link between them?”

“The link is that they’re all mostly androids getting hurt,” Hank says, “Not much else to it.”

“You could have overlooked something.”

“Oh, fuck you. Fine, knock yourself out. I need a coffee.” Hank steps out, no doubt heading to the Break Room. Connor stays put for a few minutes, watches as Officers come to escort Charlie back his cell. He thinks he’d like to try interrogating, at some point.

He goes back to his desk, deliberately keeping his eyes ahead as he passes Detective Reed’s desk. The man doesn’t say anything as he walks by, which Connor is grateful for. He doesn’t understand the aggression that the man seems to hold for him, but brief observations of how he addresses Lieutenant Anderson have told him that maybe the man is, as he’d heard Hank mutter to himself, a “ _Grade A Douchebag_ ”. It’s better to avoid him, probably.

Connor sits at his desk, reaching out to touch Lieutenant Anderson’s monitor. He downloads the case files quickly, closing his eyes to go through them and look for links. As the Lieutenant said, most of them involve an android getting hurt. A lot of them are relatively simple cases; a matter of waiting for a suspect to be sighted, or cases of the suspects moving away. But there’s a few of them where there are no suspects, because the androids hadn’t given any information. They’d reported the attack, or other people had, but the victims hadn’t wanted to talk about what happened to them. Most of them were from previous PL series, or other cleaning models. A pattern, even if there’s not much else to go on.

Connor goes back to the earliest listed case. It had been called in just a month after Markus’ demonstration, after the evacuation of most of the city had occurred. Around the same time that President Warren declared negotiations with Markus successful, and Detroit a safe place for humans to live again. Still, even after people were sent back to the city, while some decided to stay, most just wanted to pack their stuff and leave. It’s been almost half a year now, and Detroit still has hundreds of people passing through to grab their belongings and fleeing as far as they can. This was also the case for many police officers, which explains why so many cases went to Lieutenant Anderson, and why they remained unsolved. Not enough time, not enough resources, and whoever was responsible had probably already left.

Still, if these cases are connected like Connor thinks they are, then the perpetrator hasn’t fled the city. The most recent case dates back only a few weeks ago.

“Well, Sherlock?” Lieutenant Anderson drops into his chair with a sigh, coffee in hand, giving Connor an expectant look.

“I have found a potential like between five of your cases,” Connor tells him, “All similar models – programmed to be cleaners, before. They were all badly beaten by somebody in a similar, but none of them would say anything about their attacker.”

“You think we have a serial android attacker?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure. Time wise, there doesn’t seem to be a clear pattern, but it may be because victims chose not to come forward. There may be more than we have on file.”

“Could be,” Hank allows, “Not a lot of androids would go to the human police, considering what happened. The fact that enough came forward for there to be an observable pattern is a miracle in itself. Must have been hurt real bad.”

“Some had parts of their bodies ripped off,” Connor says, the words heavy on his tongue. Hank winces, leaning back in his chair.

“What’s the most recent we have on file?” he asks.

“A few weeks ago. A former AX400 model. Her partner came to make the report. Says she had her right hand badly damaged, and she sustained burn marks. Nothing could be done as the victim herself refused to come forward.”

“Do we have an address, for the partner?”

“We have a work address,” Connor states, “She runs her previous owner’s convenience store.”

“That’s a lead,” Hank says, and gets to his feet. Connor moves to do the same, but Hank shakes his head.

“You need to take a break, kid,” he says, “You got stabbed, yesterday. I can handle asking this girl a few questions.”

“Androids don’t feel pain,” Connor protests, “It would make more sense for me to come with you, so I can remain up to date on the progress of the investigation.”

“You may not feel pain, but you guys feel emotions. That means you can feel shock, and that means you can be traumatised. You’ve been in a shooting and you’ve been damaged in the last few days, and you’re new to this. Stay here. I need you to look at the other cases we have, see if you can’t find anything that could be useful.” Hank pulls on his coat.

“But-” Connor starts, but stops when the Lieutenant glares at him.

“That’s an order,” he says firmly, “I need you here, and you showing up in a Cyberlife uniform probably won’t help me, with this android. I’ll tell you everything that happens. Don’t test me, Connor.”

Connor struggles with himself for a moment, staring back at stern blue eyes, going through his options. He wants to disobey, wants to continue arguing, but Lieutenant Anderson is, for all intents and purposes, his boss. And Connor knows he can’t disobey every order, even if they don’t make sense. Even if he has basically just been called a nuisance, a burden, an obstacle.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, and he surprises himself with how bitter he sounds. Hank raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Thanks,” he says dryly, and grabs his keys, leaving Connor alone at the desk. Connor watches as he walks through the office and past the barrier, and he almost wants to get up and follow him. He feels conflicted, feels frustrated, feels -

“Your master leave you behind?” It’s Detective Reed. The man just sneers, walks past him without another word.

 _Anger_. Connor feels anger. It’s an emotion he hasn’t felt often, and its novelty makes it difficult to ignore. There’s an uncomfortable pit in his stomach.

He swallows, turns to his monitor. Tries to focus.

Five cases, all similar models and all badly damaged in similar ways. Some missing limbs – one had her arm torn off like she was nothing, like a doll broken by a careless child.

_Anger._

One was beaten on her way home to Jericho, which explains why it was called in. No way would Markus have let something like this slide. She’d been particularly damaged around the face. Dislocated jaw.

_Anger._

Connor tugs at his sleeve, tries to feel for his coin in his pocket. The fabric of his jacket is stiff and tight, scratches at his skin. Cyberlife designed it to be durable, not comfortable. Comfort for androids was never a concern.

**_Anger._ **

He opens his email. Several emails sent. Not a single reply. Not even a read receipt.

**_Anger._ **

Reed laughs from across the officer.

**_Anger._ **

Lieutenant Anderson’s nameplate sits across from him.

**_ Anger. _ **

Emails. Empty. Nothing. Connor’s apparently not worthy of a response, of a work uniform, of being someone’s work partner, of respect. His mentor probably has all his emails go directly in the junk folder.

**_ A n g e r. _ **

He writes an email. No point to it, he knows. He hovers over the delete button.

Connor sees his reflection in the monitor screen. His LED flashing red, his face stony, mouth curled into a scowl.

He hits send.

* * *

The convenience store is empty of customers, when Hank arrives. It’s not a surprise, because the woman behind the counter hasn’t removed her LED. Not many humans come here, he figures, and the frown that forms on her face when she sees him confirms it.

“Uh, hey,” he says, “Lieutenant Anderson, Detroit Police. I’d just like to ask you some questions, if that’s okay? It’s about the assault you reported, a few weeks ago.”

She scoffs a laugh.

“Why? D’you guys suddenly decide it’s time to start working, now?”

“More like we’ve finally gotten our shit together enough to start looking at cases,” Hank says bitterly, “Half the goddamn DPD fled the city.”

“How terrible,” the android says, her voice flat, “It’s almost as if losing your slaves made things difficult.”

Hank opens his mouth. Closes it again.

“What do you want to know?” says the android, lips pressing together in a thin line.

“Right. Your friend, did she -”

“Partner,” she corrects, eyes flashing with anger, “She’s my soulmate. She was hurt so bad she barely speaks anymore.” Her voice trembles as she says it.

“I’m sorry,” Hank says, “I really am. I know it’s too little too late at this point, but whoever hurt her may have hurt several others, and could still be out there right now, doing the same. I need as much information as you can give me, so I can catch whoever’s hurting androids, Miss...?” He trails off.

“Lucy,” the android says.

“Lucy. Anything you can tell me would be a great help.” Hank pauses, maintains eye contact, tries to look sincere. Lucy looks at him, searching his face. Eventually, she takes a breath, putting her hands on the counter.

“Emma was walking home – she’d just been out for a walk, ‘cause she likes walking. She was attacked from behind. Whoever did it snapped three of her fingers, and -” she stops, turning her head away. Shakily, she continues, not meeting Hank’s gaze. “They burned her face. Badly. I tried to get her to Jericho, so she could get fixed, but she… She wouldn’t. She screams if I even try to touch her face. It’s like she thinks she deserves the words.”

“Words?”

The android looks back at him. Hank’s stomach twists when he sees her eyes, shiny and wide. Tears.

“It wasn’t just a burn,” she says, voice quiet, dripping with grief, “It was a brand. _Glitch_. Took me a while to figure it out, because it was done so fast. Some of the letters melted together.” The tears drip down her face, one after the other, hitting the counter she’s leaning against. 

“Did she tell you anything about her attacker?” Hank asks, voice as soft as he can make it. Lucy shakes her head, angrily wiping at her face with the back of her hand.

“She won’t say anything. It’s a great fucking day if I can get a verbal “ _yes_ ” or “ _no_ ” from her.” Her voice cracks again, and Hank wants to say something, anything.

“I’m s-” He stops. _Sorry_. What for? What good would it do?

There’s a door, behind the counter. It opens, and a second androids steps out, wide blue eyes full of concern as she walks towards the other.

“Emma,” says Lucy, “I didn’t mean – I didn’t know you were back there, I -” She breaks off as Emma reaches out a hand, delicately cupping her face. Her hair is covering must of her face, but over the bridge of her nose and what’s visible of her cheek Hank can see a charred G and L burned into the skin, revealing parts of white endoskeleton and dried blue blood. The letters are big and angry looking, and Hank tears his eyes away, opting to look at where her hand is pressed against the other android’s face. The skin of her cheek disappears as the other’s hand goes white, and the Android closes her eyes for a moment, LED flashing yellow.

“Emma,” she says softly, and her face twists with fear and pain – a memory that isn’t hers.

“Sorry,” Emma whispers, so quiet Hank would have missed it if he hadn’t seen her lips move.

“It’s not your fault, it – A male.” Lucy turns to Hank, voice urgent. “A male, relatively young. Blond hair. Couldn’t see his face but one of his fingers was missing. He was wearing a black coat.”

“Did… Did she just -”

“She shared her memories with me,” Lucy says impatiently, “That’s all she saw. That’s all we know.”

She pulls Emma close, hand curling gently around her neck as she presses a firm kiss to the other’s forehead. Emma flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” Hank says, “Thank you, this was very helpful.  Listen, I -”

“Just catch him,” says Lucy, not looking away from her partner, “Or I will, and you won’t find any part of him left to interrogate.”

Hank turns, walks out of the store. The door closes behind him with a slam.

His fingers shake, as he unlocks his car door. He’d seen bad injuries on countless humans, seen androids destroyed in the past. He’s used to bad things. His entire life is a series of bad things, one after the other.

It’s the _pain_. Connor had said androids don’t feel any, and maybe it’s the case for physical injuries, but. Those two girls were _hurt_. They were hurt badly, so badly that Hank could almost taste it.

He doesn’t drive back to the office. He was going to, was going to go back to Connor and tell him what happened, was going to stay on top of this, for once. But he can’t get the charred letters out of his mind, can’t stop thinking about that android and how she’d cried, cried for someone she _loved_.

Like he’d done for Cole.

He slams down on the accelerator and drives home, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white.

It’s two hours later, sinking into the couch after three too many glasses of whisky with Sumo asleep at his feet, that Hank’s mind is blank enough for him to pick up his laptop. The notification had been there since he got home and turned the damn thing on, glaring at him, getting redder and redder the more he stared at it. He’d wanted to ignore it, wanted to switch tabs and hate-watch a dumb old movie until he passed out. Instead he’d just put the laptop back down, leaned back, and drank.

It’s from Connor. Obviously.

**_Subject: No Subject._ **

_Lt. H._

_Lieutenant Anderson and I successfully found and arrested the suspects I mentioned in my last email. Interrogation was also successful. I have since discovered a potential link between cases involving assaults on previous cleaner model androids. Lieutenant Anderson has left to gather more information._

_Not that you care. You don’t care enough to reply, so I assume you don’t care enough to read these. But, as agreed, here is another report. I am doing my job. Because that’s all I am trusted enough to do, apparently, so long as I stay in the office and look at files on a computer screen._

_Read what I’ve already read while Reed sneers at me from across the room, while Anderson goes to talk to a lead that I found, because my Cyberlife uniform might intimidate her._

_I had to put it back on. My clothes were damaged, and I have yet to buy new ones. And clearly I don’t matter enough to have a semblance of a uniform from the DPD. Not even a name tag. Just my model number, constantly flashing on my chest._

_I suppose I have failed you. If you hired me because you thought I stood out, you were mistaken. I am nothing special, and will inevitably be sent off after this training period ends._

_Perhaps I’ll go to Jericho. Maybe I’ll leave Detroit. Then you’ll never hear from me again. Your spam folder will stop getting filled up by my meaningless reports._

_Anger’s a feeling I am becoming increasingly familiar with. Did you know deviants feel anger? Do you care?_

_I look forward to not hearing from you._

_Connor._

Hank stares at his screen. His glass is still in his hands, a sip of whisky left.

He closes the email, downs his glass, and calls Fowler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> take a shot every time hank raises an eyebrow in this chapter honestly


	8. Chapter 8

When Connor steps into the office the next day, Captain Fowler is waiting for him.

“My office,” he says, arms crossed over his chest where he’s leaning against his door.

“Is everything alright?” Connor asks as he steps into the office, and Fowler grunts in reply, shutting the door behind them.

“Peachy,” he says, “That’s for you.” He points at a plastic bag, lying on his desk.

“What is it?” Connor asks, gingerly picking it up. It’s light.

“Your _monitor_ called me yesterday,” Fowler says, a sarcastic emphasis on the word, and Connor freezes, fingers tightening their hold on the plastic. His chest tightens.

“My monitor?” he repeats, staring at the bag, and Fowler hums impatiently.

_He read the email. I’m getting fired._

 “Said you needed to be recognised by civilians as working for us, because your Cyberlife uniform ‘ _impedes investigations_ ’.” Fowler lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Anyways. You get a shirt, and there’s a key card for the barrier in there as well, so you can stop using that ‘guest’ one that you have.”

“My… My monitor asked you to give me these?” Connor looks up, mouth parted in disbelief.

“ _Ask_ is a nice way of putting it,” Fowler huffs, “Any other questions, or can I get back to work?”

“I… Yes, of course. I mean. I’ll go. Thank you, Captain.” Connor turns, walks out of the office. The bag almost doesn’t feel real in his hands.

_He read the email. I’m not fired. He got me a uniform_.

There’s a new feeling that washes over him then. Happiness, but it’s more than that, it’s exhilarating. _Joy_.

“Jesus, what’s got you in such a cheery fucking mood,” mutters Gavin, pushing past. Connor barely registers him.

Hank’s at his desk already, which is a surprise. He’s half lying across it, head resting in the palm of his hand. He raises his head ever so slightly to look up at him when Connor joins him.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks, and his voice sounds hoarse, tired.

“Captain Fowler has given me a uniform, in order for me to be recognized more easily as working for the DPD,” Connor says, gently pulling the items out of the bag. The shirt is the same the other officers wear, with his name stitched into the front. The material is soft, in his hands. It slides smoothly against his fingers, flexible, _comfortable_. The badge is pinned to the front, and he traces the metal with cautious fingers. It’s smoother than his coin, the lettering on it more clearly defined.

“You look happy,” says Lieutenant Anderson, and when Connor glancing at him, there’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His face looks softer, because of the tiredness or the smile itself, he can’t tell. But he likes this look on him.

“Yes, I…” Connor pauses, feeling himself smile too, “I am.”

“You should go put it on,” says Lieutenant Anderson, “Ya know. Get rid of that weird Cyberlife thing.”

“Get rid of it,” Connor repeats, testing how the words feel on his tongue.

“Yeah.” Hank sits up a little straighter. “You don’t belong to them anymore. Get changed and chuck it.”

Connor’s fingers undo the Cyberlife uniform before he even really registers that he’s doing it.

“Ah, Connor, uh – Ah, fuck, okay.” Hank looks away as Connor takes it off, seeming fascinated with a scuff mark on the tip of his shoes as Connor pulls his new shirt on. His sensors have become far more receptive, since having deviated, and he can feel the soft slide of the material against his chest. It’s pleasant.

“You could have used the bathroom,” Hank says, sounding embarrassed, and a little bit uncomfortable.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Connor says, but it’s very difficult to focus on feeling apologetic as he drops the Cyberlife uniform into the wastepaper basket next to his desk.

“S’fine,” Hank says, and clears his throat. “Right, so. About the android I went to see yesterday.”

“Was your visit successful?” Connor asks, and Hank nods.

“Yeah, though she didn’t like me much.” Hank hesitates, glancing over Connor’s face. “I think it would have been better if you’d come with me.”

It’s not an apology, except it is. Connor smiles.

“Next time,” he says, and the other man nods.

“Yeah, so, uh. The victim was pretty traumatised, but she shared her memories with her partner and we’re looking for a guy who’s relatively young, blonde hair, and missing a finger.”

“That’s not a lot to go on,” Connor says, frowning, “Hopefully we can get more information from another android.”

“Yeah, about that.” Hank swallows. “I think they’re not saying anything ‘cause they’re scared shitless. I don’t know if the other cases have mention of burn marks, but. I think these are hate crimes.”

“Burn marks?”

Hank takes a breath. His face clouds over for a moment, reliving something.

“The victim I saw yesterday – she was branded. Across her face. He’s burning a message into them. _Glitch_.”

“You think the others may have been branded as well?” Connor asks, pushing past the sick feeling in his stomach. He knows he shouldn’t be able to feel nausea, but the discomfort is there, accompanying the idea of someone _branding_ a message, _that_ message, into androids.

“Yeah. This guy’s got a vendetta. He doesn’t want them dead, he wants to hurt them. Traumatise them. Difficult to live free if you have what’s basically a slur burned into your body.”

“Could the androids not get it removed?” Connor knows it’s difficult to fix a damaged endoskeleton, but outside skin damage is more easily dealt with. He knows many injured androids went to Jericho after the revolution, to get the necessary components needed to fix damaged areas.

“I guess,” Hank says grimly, “The one I saw yesterday refused to do so.”

“Why?” Connor stares at him, confused. “Why would you keep something that’s a reminder of something terrible?”

“Sometimes you can turn it into something good,” Hank says slowly, “A reminder of what you survived, of your strength. Sometimes, it’s because you feel like you deserve to be unhappy.”

Connor hesitates, taking in the words.

“Have you felt that way?” he asks. Hank’s eyes snap up to his.

“No,” he says curtly, and then, “Did you find anything in the other files?”

Connor tries not to analyse what his answer means, and turns to pull up the case from two months ago, where the android had had her arm torn off. She’d been one of the ones to report the assault herself, before backing out during questioning.

“Amelia,” he says, turning his monitor so Hank can see it, “Lives closest to the station and was attacked relatively recently. She didn’t report any burns, but did report the assault herself.”

“So might be possible to get her to talk now,” Hank says, rubbing a hand across his face. “Alright. Any others?”

“There was one; Tasha. Her assault was reported by members of Jericho. She suffered a dislocated jaw.”

“Ah Christ,” Hank says, “I do not want to have to talk to Marcus’s buddies.”

“It may be our best option,” Connor points out, “Considering their opinion of you should be favourable. Besides, they may be more eager to stop this person than Amelia. Maybe they’ve found information in their own time, which could be useful to us.”

“Fuck, you’re probably right.” Hank groans, rubbing aggressively at his eyes. “Okay. Let’s go, then. But let’s be fast about it, alright?”

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

A few minutes later, in the car, Connor catches his reflection in the window. His uniform contrasts starkly with his pale skin. He likes it.

He suddenly feels an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Hank turns on some music. Connor turns his head, closes his eyes. A song plays, then ends.

“Earth to Connor. Are you sleeping, or what?” Hank snaps his fingers, sounding impatient, but there’s underlying concern there.

“Sorry Lieutenant. I was attending to some business.”

“With your eyes closed?” Hank looks unconvinced.

“It is easier to focus,” Connor explains, “Writing an email is difficult if my visual sensors are constantly registering incongruent information.”

“Emails? That’s how you write emails?”

“Sometimes.” Truth is, Connor prefers this method. It feels more personal, genuine, and there is satisfaction that comes with using his body to do any action that he wasn’t explicitly programmed to do.

“Huh.” Hank looks at the road, brow furrowed.

“I can avoid doing so if it bothers you.”

“Nah, s’just. Didn’t know you could do that.”

“Oh.”

The drive to Jericho is somewhat awkward, after that. Hank seems preoccupied, and Connor is too nervous to strike conversation. They listen to music in silence – it’s a different band again, one that Connor adds to his repertoire. He likes this one, even though they’re a bit more relaxed than the other music Hank has played so far.

“We’re here,” Hank says eventually, pulling up outside a big, red brick building. It’s an older style, but undoubtedly beautiful, with large windows and vines growing up the sides. A quick search reveals that it once belonged to a painter named Carl Manfred, and Markus had inherited it and turned it into a sanctuary for androids. “ _Jericho_ ” is written across the front, in big, yellow letters just above the arched front door – Cyberlife Sans. Some androids sit outside, on the steps and ramp that lead to the main entrance. They look towards Hank’s car with guarded expressions, and when Connor steps out, one of them gets up and heads inside.

“Fucking A,” Hank mutters, climbing out of his side and slamming the car door shut. Another android stands, eyes widening in surprise.

“It’s you,” he calls, an uncertain smile gracing his features, “I was wondering if you’d ever show up again.”

“Do I know you?” Hank asks gruffly as they head towards the entrance, shoulders tense and stiff.

“I’m Simon,” says the android kindly, “You came to stand next to me, during the demonstration.”

“Okay,” Hank says, discomfort palpable, “D’you know anyone named Tasha?”

Simon’s smile drops, replaced by a sombre expression.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Hank says, “Can we talk to her?”

“She doesn’t talk to many people,” Simon replies, “You’ll have to talk to Marcus first. He doesn’t like people overwhelming her.”

“Of course. Fantastic.” Hank’s hand curls into a fist at his side. Connor takes a step forward.

“That won’t be a problem,” he says smoothly, “We mean no harm. We’re just trying to understand what happened. Tasha isn’t the only case like this we have, you see.”

“Wait, there’re more, like her, that came to you?” Simon clarifies, and Connor nods.

“Come with me,” Simon says, and holds the door open.

“Aren’t you just a diplomat,” Hank mutters sarcastically to Connor as they step inside, and Connor shrugs.

“One of us has to be,” he quips, and follows Simon through the hallway before Hank can say anything else.

“ _Fucking androids_ ,” he hears him whisper as Simon leads them up a large set of stairs, but there’s no bite to it.

Connor counts it as a win.

* * *

Hank has heard of Carl Manfred. He’s not the biggest art enthusiast, but passing all the paintings on their way to Markus’s office, even he’s impressed. There’s a moment where Connor pauses, looking at a painting in a significantly different style than all those they’ve crossed so far. It shows two hands, reaching for each other, stretching. Hank glances at the small card underneath it.

“ _In memory of a man who taught me hope_.” It’s written in that Cyberlife font, small and perfect letters.

“This way, please,” Simon says, and Connor’s LED flashes yellow, startled.

“Yes, sorry,” he says, and walks to where Simon’s standing, holding open a wooden door. Connor steps inside the room, and as Hank does the same, he catches Simon’s gaze. It’s curious, but soft. Uncomfortably perceptive.

“Markus will see you now,” he says quietly, and steps away as Hank enters the room. The door slowly slides shut behind him.

“Welcome, Lieutenant Anderson.”

Hank’s seen Markus a handful of times. Mostly on TV, once in person. He remembers a determined expression, a clear voice shouting a message of peace. He remembers reckless bravery; a leader stepping forward, shielding a group of androids, and he remembers how that voice had carried, singing into the cold winter air.

The man walking towards them now is calmer, more relaxed. Gone is the large coat he wore, replaced by a simple beige sweater. The determination is still there, guarding the blue and green of his eyes, but it’s softened by the welcoming smile gracing his lips, the hand outstretched to grasp his. Hank understands, not for the first time, why the androids put their trust in him.

“Markus,” Hank greets, and takes the hand he’s been offered. Markus’s gaze moves to Connor, who shifts awkwardly under the attention.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” says Markus, smile growing, and he lets go of Hank’s hand in order to offer it to Connor.

“My name is Connor,” Connor starts, but he stops as Markus’s hand grasps his forearm, skin fading away to white. Brown eyes go wide, and Hank watches as his LED spins yellow, flashes _red_.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Markus says softly, eyes moving over Connor’s face, “And I apologise. We should’ve gotten you out sooner.”

“It… I…” Connor swallows, takes a step back. He looks lost, like a man revisiting a memory. His brow furrows, and Hank figures it’s not a pleasant one.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, frowning. Connor swallows, gives him a quick nod that isn’t convincing in the slightest.

“We’d like to talk to an android named Tasha,” Hank says, trying to break the uncomfortable silence that’s suddenly filled the room, “About an assault she suffered.”

“I know,” Markus says, turning his head away from Connor and back to him, “I’m afraid she’s not ready to talk. But I am available to talk about your investigation.”

“That’s nice of you, but, uh. She may know tings that you don’t. We realise it’s traumatising, but -”

“Simon mentioned that you’ve had several cases, similar to hers,” Markus interrupts, “How many?”

“Five, including hers,” Hank says, “We talked to another victim a few days ago, and have some information we’d like to check.”

“Five,” Markus repeats, his expression sombre, “Five androids, desperate enough to go to the human police to report it.” He shakes his head.

“It’s not much to go on, considering all of them refused to give any details on their assailant until recently,” Hank says, “But it’s enough to consider that there may be a pattern.”

Markus laughs then, but it’s devoid of humour.

“There might be a pattern, yes,” he says, and his eyes move back to Connor, “We’ve had twenty-seven cases in the last six months, Lieutenant.”

“That’s…”

“A lot? Yes, I know. And we’ve gotten barely anywhere.” Markus walks to the window, on the left side of the room, sitting on a brown armchair pushed up next to it.

“Tasha was the only one willing to go to the DPD,” he says quietly, “None of the others saw the point.”

“Were they…” Connor pauses, takes a hesitant step forward, “The Android the Lieutenant spoke to had burn marks. A brand. Did the others -”

“ _Glitch_ ,” Markus says, mouth twisting in disgust, “We managed to remove it for 17 of them. 6 refused to have theirs removed, the others were burned irreparably. We don’t have the necessary equipment to replace those parts – too delicate a task. Those ones were burned mostly around the face, one burned so deeply in his chest that his Thirium pump was compromised. We stabilised him, but we fear that doing anymore would shut him down.”

“Did any of them say anything, about their attacker?” Hank asks, glancing at Connor. The kid looks like he feels sick, somehow appearing paler than usual.

“Some,” Markus says, “I was able to interface with a couple of them. Not much to go on. Tall, male, wore a black coat. One of them -” He breaks off, eyes closing. “He laughed at her, when she screamed. Laughed, like she was nothing.”

“The girl I talked to,” Hank says, “She said he had blonde hair, and was missing a finger. Does any of that sound familiar?”

Markus hesitates, brown furrowing.

“Tom mentioned he used his left, to brand him,” he says, “Kept the right one close to his chest. Could be that it’s the one missing the finger. Tom’s the only one who saw him head on, but he’s one of the ones who got his face branded. His visual components were damaged, so the visual of the attacker’s face was compromised. We’re trying to piece it back together, but we can’t make him revisit it over and over again. We’re stuck.”

“Did the other victims say anything?” Connor asks then, and Markus shakes his head.

“Not enough. They’re scared, and it’s affecting the others. We got a curfew going, because most of them were attacked late, but I don’t know if that’s worth it. They feel trapped all over again.”

“I think that’s the point,” Hank says slowly, “Whoever is doing this wants to send a message, wants androids to feel afraid. He’s trying to take your newfound freedom away.”

“Which is why this man needs to be caught, Lieutenant,” says Markus, anger flashing across his face, “But we have so little to -”

“Where were they attacked?” Connor says suddenly, cutting Markus off. The other android looks at him, confused.

“Various places, mostly alleyways.”

“Right, but where?” Connor looks at Hank. “He may have a specific part of the city he stays in.”

“That’s a good point,” Hank says, and Markus gets up from his chair, heading to his desk. He pulls out two black things that Hank can’t remember the name of, but he remembers them being used in stores to show holographic images – the modern way of advertising. He watches as Markus sets them up, and then there’s a large map of Detroit, standing upright in the centre of the room.

“One minute,” Markus says, and closes his eyes. His LED goes yellow for a while, spinning, spinning. Connor stiffens beside Hank.

“He’s communicating with all the androids in the building,” he whispers, and Hank nods.

“I figured.”

Eyes still closed, Markus moves, one hand outstretched. He touches places on the map, leaving red dots behind. One, two, three, ten. He stops. His eyes open.

“Not everyone remembered or replied,” he says quietly, “But here are some of the places.”

“It’s a cluster,” Connor observes, “A wide-spread one, but still. He’s staying in this part of town.”

“It’s something,” Markus says, “I can tell my people to stay away from there, until he’s caught.”

“If he gets caught,” Hank says, eyes scanning the map, “It’s still a big area, and we’ve got so little on him. We can’t just walk around stopping every blonde guy to check if he’s missing a finger.”

“No,” Connor agrees, “But we can send bait.”

“What?” Hank stares at him.

“He’s hunting androids,” Connor says, “So we send an android there, pretty late, and see if he comes out again.”

“I do not feel comfortable with you using some random person in such a dangerous situation,” Markus says, frowning, “We’ve had enough casualties. I certainly won’t allow you to ask any of the people here. My priority is their safety.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that,” Connor says quickly, “But I could do it.”

He says it nonchalantly, like he’s offered to do the dishes. Hank stares at him.

“Excuse me?” he asks, incredulous.

“I said I could be bait,” Connor repeats, “It would have to be later at night, but I could go to that area and -”

“The Hell you could!” It leaves him before Hank really realises he’s saying anything. Markus shifts, glances from him to Connor, who’s staring at him.

 “It makes the most sense,” Connor says, and he has the audacity to look confused, “We are working on this case, and this man hunts androids. I am equipped to deal with these situations. We can’t compromise a civilian’s safety.”

“And your safety is what? Optional?” Hank can hear his voice rising, and Connor blinks at him.

“I… If you have a different suggestion, Lieutenant, then please share it with me. I am under the impression we don’t have any other options.”

Connor’s right. Hank knows this. He knows he’s being too loud, too stubborn. He knows that this doesn’t make sense, in any context. He knows this is the best option for them.

“We’ll find a different option”, Hank says harshly, and he can feel Markus’ curious eyes boring into him, “I’m not using a rookie as bait.”

“But, Lieutenant -” Connor protests, LED whirling yellow in an effort to understand Hank’s outburst.

“No,” Hank says stubbornly, then turns to Markus. “Thank you for your time. Keep androids away from that area for now – we’ll keep you updated on our progress.”

He turns, walks out of the room. Connor will follow, like he always does.

If he doesn’t, then that doesn’t matter either. It’s fine. It’s _fine._

He hears footsteps run after him. Connor reaches his side, matches his pace.

Hank pretends he isn’t relieved.

“I don’t understand, Lieutenant,” Connor says as they step outside and head towards Hank’s car, “I don’t see what’s wrong with using a bait.”

“Just drop it, kid,” Hank says through gritted teeth, and climbs into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut.

“We do not have enough information to issue a search warrant,” Connor continues as he gets into the passenger seat, “So our options are severely -”

“I said drop it!” Hank shouts, and Connor flinches. He glares at Hank then, honest to God glares, and slams his own door.

“No,” he says, “Not until you explain your reasoning.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Hank’s furious, starts the car and starts reversing out of the drive.

“I realise I am relatively new to the DPD,” Connor says, “But I have the necessary skills. I feel like I’ve proven myself in our time working together and -”

“It’s got nothing to do with your fucking skills!” Hank squeezes the steering wheel, takes a breath. “This guy gets off on branding and hurting androids. We don’t know anything about how strong he is. You could get hurt.”

And shit, there it is. A few months in, a few emails deep, and Hank _cares_. He cares, and he doesn’t want Connor to get _hurt._ Doesn’t want to see that burned slur on him, doesn’t want him to experience that fear, that pain. Because he fucking _cares_.

“Androids don’t feel physical pain,” Connor says automatically, but his tone is quiet, confused. Hank can feel his eyes on him, can see the puzzled expression on his face from the corner of his eyes.

“Right. But you could still get damaged.” Hank swallows, keeps his eyes trained resolutely on the road.

“I…” Connor hesitates. They drive in silence for a bit, and then quietly, he speaks up. “I would be careful, Lieutenant. And I would take any precautions necessary. You’d be close by.”

“Yeah, but we don’t know this guy. He could be too fast.” _I could be too late._

They stop at a red light. Connor’s still looking at him.

“I trust you,” he says then, and Hank tightens his grip on the steering wheel, stomach twisting.

“Can we stop talking about this?” he asks, and he hates how desperate he sounds.

Connor hesitates.

“Alright,” he says eventually. Hank chances a glance at him, takes in wide brown eyes and thoughtful expression. Designed to be perfect. He’s stupidly beautiful, and he trusts him.

He trusts him, and Hank’s been lying to him since before they met.

Hank drops Connor off at the station. He almost expects Connor to ask why he isn’t coming up, considering it’s early in the day and Connor’s been making subtle hints about his work ethic a lot more often recently, but he doesn’t. He just steps out, turns to look at him like he wants to say something, before he seems to come to a resolution in his head and gives up.

“See you tomorrow, Lieutenant,” he says instead, and walks away.

Hank considers calling after him, telling him everything. Considers getting out of the car and running after him.

He drives home.

* * *

 

> **AUTHOR'S NOTE** : Again some wonderful fanart by [Prominence12 ](prominence12.tumblr.com)on Tumblr, go [reblog it](http://prominence12.tumblr.com/post/176218597495/reuploading-the-comic-from-my-last-post-because) and show them some love because I'm crying with how much I love this!!!!!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello! thank you all so so much for all your lovely comments - i'm so glad you guys are here and your comments mean the world to me!! i hope you like this sad, angsty chapter (hank is an angsty emo child but its ok we love him anyway)

**_Sender: Connor.  
Subject: Apology._ **

_Dear Daddy,_

_Captain Fowler gave me the Jacket you sent, and the badge. Thank you. I know it may be difficult to believe, but I am grateful. For everything you’ve done, not just this._

_I owe you an apology, for my last email. It was sent out of frustration, out of anger, and it was unfair. I was hurt, which doesn’t excuse it, but._

_I thought you didn’t read these, you see. I thought you saw me as nothing more than an annoyance. And I was angry, and acted without thinking. Please forgive me - I honestly believed you didn’t care. But Daddy, I’m so relieved to be wrong._

_I thought I’d imagined you completely, thought I’d just created this man who cared, this man who was genuinely interested in my progress, but you’re real. Aren’t you?_

_You don’t have to reply. I don’t need to know what you look like, how old you are, if you’re bald like I imagine you to be or if you have thick locks of hair. None of that matters – please delete my last email. I promise I will never write you anything so careless and rude again._

_I will focus on my job more. I want to do well, if anything just to make you proud. I’m unsure of where I want to be, where I want to go, but this is something I can and will work towards._

_Daddy, I want so much to impress. I hope you will let me. I hope I haven’t ruined this._

* * *

 

**[Draft]** _Sender: Lt. H._  
_**T**_ ** _o: Connor._ **  
**Subject: RE: Apology.**

_It’s okay, I understand. Besides, if anyone owes someone an apology, it’s me._

_Connor, you’ve got it wrong, and I’m sorry that_

**[Delete]**

* * *

 

**_Sender: Connor  
Subject: Report_ **

_Dear Daddy, It’s been a week since my last email, and I’m stuck. Our case isn’t advancing – in fact it’s getting worse. Two other androids have been attacked, and we’re still no closer to catching our culprit. I again suggested the idea of using bait to Lieutenant Anderson, but he refuses to consider it._

_We went to see Markus last week, you see. I’m sure you know who he is. He told us that many more androids have been hurt than we first realised, but even with 27 other victims, we don’t have enough to identify whoever is doing this. We did narrow down an area in Detroit where most of the attacks occurred however, so I suggested using myself as bait to catch it. It makes sense, and we couldn’t use anyone else as they would be in jeopardy. I have the necessary skills programmed into me, so it is natural that I would be bait. But Lieutenant Anderson refused, and continues to do so._

_I considered going to Captain Fowler, with my idea. I know he’d agree, and then the Lieutenant would have to let me go. But I can’t do that._

_He doesn’t want me to get hurt. At least that’s what he said in the car that day. And I would feel wrong, betraying his trust. I don’t want to betray his trust._

_He fascinates me, Daddy. Reminds me of you, which is ridiculous considering I don’t know you. He’s the most human individual I’ve met; multi-faceted, complex, contradicting. The more time I spend with him the more I want to understand him. Sometimes it seems like he doesn’t like me, like I’m a nuisance, something he has to put up with. Other times it feels like he wants to spend time around me, wants to get to know me. And sometimes it seems like he cares, like that moment in the car, and even earlier, with Markus._

_We interfaced, when we met. He accessed my memory. It was unpleasant, but I am not angry at Markus for doing so. He understood it, and he didn’t question it further. But when he stopped, Lieutenant Anderson looked concerned. Like he cared._

_I wish you’d been there; maybe you’d understand the Lieutenant better than I do._

_I like him, I know that much. His work ethic frustrates me, but he’s a good partner, and I like talking to him. He’s been quietly introducing me to music – I don’t think he meant for me too notice, but I did. Sometimes, he’ll talk about whatever band we’re listening to, and I see this glimpse of someone less guarded, someone I want to know better. His eyes will light up and somehow get bluer than they are, and he’ll smile. It’s a rare thing, to see him smile. I’ve kept each one I’ve seen in memory._

_I wish I’d told him more, about John, when he asked. I almost told him about Cyberlife, about how they rounded us up and brought us to the deactivation room. How they killed half of us, before the demonstration ended, before Markus won. How I’d been next in line._

_They kept us locked in a room for a week, after that. And then, like nothing ever happened, they opened the door, and suddenly we had a “dorm”. Suddenly they treated us like people, smiled and said pleasantries through gritted teeth._

_Most of us left. Those who didn’t were scared. I was scared, Daddy. I’d never been out of Cyberlife – I had no idea what to expect. And John was terrified, and he asked me to stay with him, and I said yes._

_And then he left a week later. And I stayed. And you know the rest._

_I wish I’d told the Lieutenant. I wish he saw me as his partner, instead of a temporary co-worker._

_I suppose I may have lied, in my last email. I want to succeed to make you proud, but maybe I also want to succeed so I can stay. So I can get to know him._

_Maybe I will. Maybe one day I’ll be in a room with both of you, and I’ll understand you both. Wouldn’t that be something?_

_Regards, Connor._

* * *

 

**[Draft]**   
**_Sender: Lt. H._ **   
**_To: Connor_ **   
**_Subject: RE: Report._ **

_The H stands for Hank. I’m sorry, I should have_

**[Deleted]**

* * *

 

**Sender: Connor  
Subject: Report**

_Dear Daddy,_

_Will we ever meet? I know you wish to remain anonymous for the duration of this training, but what about after that? Fowler has mentioned that in a few weeks I will pass a final exam, as humans do when they wish to work for the DPD. I am confident I will pass whatever test I am given, but will you speak to me then?_

_I like the image I have of you, but that’s just it. It’s an image. In reality, I couldn’t know someone less. It’s unnerving, to have so little information about you when you know so much about me. I don’t know your thoughts, your reasonings._

_Why did you choose to hire me, Daddy? My application was less than satisfactory. It makes no sense to me. What did you see, that made you choose me?_

_I have a lot of questions, as you can see. And no one is giving me any answers. Especially not Lieutenant Anderson._

_He’s being… Nicer, to me. I think it’s because he keeps refusing the bait idea, even though we’ve yet to find an alternative option. Or perhaps our relationship is finally, actually improving? Yesterday, Detective Reed said something unnecessary and impolite, and the Lieutenant reprimanded him rather cuttingly. I won’t repeat what was said, but he is a creative man when it comes to curse words. It was nice of him, but I’m struggling to understand why he defended me in the first place._

_I want to consider him a friend. But I don’t know if he sees me that way, or any way at all. He’s a perceptive man, and sometimes it feels like he knows more about me than he does. Like when he insisted I get rid of the Cyberlife uniform. Am I really that transparent? As a detective prototype, this seems like an issue. I should be able to bluff and hide my true feelings._

_But then, I suppose we were never meant to have feelings in the first place. We certainly weren’t equipped to deal with them._

_Have you ever been confused by feelings, Daddy? Have you ever felt strangely close to someone that’s basically a stranger? I wish I could ask for your advice. I wish you could explain why I am so confused by the Lieutenant, and why I feel close to you._

_Love, Connor._

* * *

 

**[Draft]**  
_**Sender: Lt. H.**_  
 _ **To: Connor**_  
 _ **Subject: RE: Report.**_

_Connor, you’ve been more than honest with me, so I feel like I should_

**[Deleted]**

* * *

 

**[Draft]**  
_**Sender: Lt. H.**_  
 _ **To: Connor**_  
 _ **Subject: RE: Report.**_

_It’s me, Hank Anderson. I hired you. I wanted to tell you but I_

* * *

 

**[Draft]**    
_**Sender: Lt. H.**_  
 _ **To: Connor**_  
 _ **Subject: RE: Report.**_

_What the Hell did you mean by "Love"?_

**[Deleted]**

* * *

 

Hank slams the laptop shut with an angry shout. Sumo startles, lets out a bark.

“Sorry, buddy.” Hank leans back into the couch and closes his eyes, exhausted.

He wants to come clean. He wants it so much he could cry.

“I’m a fucking asshole,” he says quietly, and he knew this about himself already, but fuck, he never thought he’d stoop this fucking low.

Here's the thing. He doesn’t know what fucking good it’ll do now, if he does tell the truth. There’s no happy ending to this – if he tells Connor the truth, he’ll hurt him. He’s betrayed his trust already, so coming clean is just gonna make Connor feel like shit. And he’ll hate Hank, which Hank wouldn’t blame him for, because he fucking deserves Connor’s hatred, at this point. But that's all that would happen - he'd hurt him, and he'd lose any chance at friendship with him. Even if he apologised, Connor wouldn't forgive him, because why the fuck would he? He has a perfect, lovely idea of who his mentor is - a good, kind man, tall and slim and everything Hank isn't. The truth is disappointing. He doesn't want to disappoint Connor.

He thinks about telling him. Think about how brown eyes would widen in shock, how hurt would flash across his face. Would he shout? Would he walk out without a word? Would he never speak to him again? Would he quit, move away and lose his chance at working for the DPD?

There are no good options. If Hank tells him, he’ll fuck up the kid’s entire life. And he can’t do that. He can’t. There's no point in telling him.

So whatever. He’ll keep up the bullshit, until this fucking training period ends. He only has a few weeks or so to go. A few weeks of lying, of pretending he's someone he'll never be, a few weeks of Connor naively thinking he's a good person, of Connor wanting to be his friend for whatever goddamn reason. But then Connor will pass his exams, and he'll go to another precinct. He'll move on from emails and from Daddy, become a great officer and have a life of his own, with friends he actually deserves, and Hank can go back to drinking alone and petting his dog. Connor will forget all about him, will get swept up in everything the world has to offer, and that’s how it should be.

Hank pretends he doesn’t feel the clench in his chest at the idea of Connor leaving. He doesn’t have the right to be upset. He doesn’t deserve to have Connor as a friend.

He doesn’t deserve fucking anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0NsFRbS8wRs hank's whole emo paragraph at the end was written listening to this goddamn song on repeat because its so E D G Y but this fic is basically based on this musical SO if u guys are curious where i got the idea here u hecking go


	10. Chapter 10

“I want to be bait.”

Simon stands in front of them, hands in his pockets as he glances from Hank to Connor expectantly. It’s 10 in the goddamn morning, Hank’s only just got his coffee, and he’s already expected to fucking talk to people.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, on the off chance that he heard wrong, that this is a bad dream and he’ll wake up all over again with Sumo drooling in his face.

“Markus told me about Connor’s idea. I want to help.”

No such luck, then. Hank takes a deep breath.

“That’s mighty nice of you,” he says, rubbing his eyes gently with forefinger and thumb, “But we scrapped that idea.”

And he’s been fighting Connor every goddamn step of the way since. The kid brought up the bait plan at least three times each day, starting out cautious and placating and ending up frustrated and insistent. Every time, Hank said no. Instead, he’s read each report he can find back to front, put out an APB, had Connor go through hours of security camera footage. Every day, they found fucking nothing. And every day, it comes back to this.

“I know,” Simon says, “And with all due respect Lieutenant, I think you should bring it back on the table.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Hank glares at him, then at Connor, who’s stayed suspiciously quiet for this exchange, “What is it with androids and not listening to a goddamn thing I say?”

“It’s a good idea,” Simon says, “And you haven’t gotten anywhere with any other methods. I understand you want to protect your partner, but we need this man to be caught. So I volunteer.”

“It’s not to protect -” Hank stops, groans. “For fuck’s sake. It’s too dangerous for either of you. How the fuck is Markus okay with you doing this, anyway?”

Simon hesitates. Hank barks a laugh.

“He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” he asks, and it’s Simon’s turn to glare.

“He doesn’t need to know all my whereabouts,” he says curtly, “And this is my decision. I can’t afford having this guy out there. We can’t afford it. There’s been two more attacks since you visited us – are you any closer to catching him?”

“Listen, we are doing -”

“No,” Connor interrupts, ignoring the way Hank turns his head to give him an indignant look, “No we’re not.”

“That’s what I thought. So let me do this.”

“No,” Hank says loudly, “I am not letting some random android put himself in a situation he isn’t qualified for with no protection.”

“Just because it wasn’t in my original programming doesn’t mean I -”

“The Lieutenant is right,” Connor says, and the two stare at him, shocked.

“You cannot be left in that kind of situation alone,” he explains, “So I will come with you. It makes more sense for us to split up, to cover more of the area. That way we can stay connected in our minds, and call for help if need be. Hank, you would obviously be nearby at all times.”

Hank splutters. They ignore him.

“I’ll do it,” Simon says, nodding. Connor smiles.

“Then it’s settled. Is tonight alright with you, or would you rather have a day to prepare?”

“Hey, wait, now hold on a minute,” Hank starts, but Simon interrupts.

“Tonight is fine. The sooner the better.”

“Perfect. I will inform Captain Fowler of our decision.” Connor moves to stand, and Hank grabs his wrist.

“You’re not informing anyone of anything,” he says fiercely, “I have said time and time again that -”

“Hank,” Connor says, and the fact alone that this is the first time he’s heard Connor use his first name like this is enough to shut Hank up mid-sentence, “I understand your worries, but you cannot let them interfere with our investigation. You’ve told me to be proactive in the past, so let me decide this. It’s our only choice and you know this.” Brown eyes meet his, determined and pleading all at once, and Connor twists his hand slightly in Hank’s grip, pale fingers wrapping around his wrist in return. Hank’s mouth dries like he’s swallowed a mouthful of sand.

“We need to act now, Lieutenant,” Connor adds, voice quiet, soft, reasonable. His wrist feels small and fragile in Hank’s grip, his fingers thin and delicate. The opposite of the strong, near unbreakable machine he was designed to be. Hank lets go, pulls his own wrist free.

“Neither of you are prepared for this,” he says, and ignores Simon’s annoyed huff, “It’s a bad idea and we’re not doing it. That’s _final_.”

“Lieutenant,” Connor says then, “Either you do it with us, or I will have to go to Fowler. I have little qualms carrying out this mission alone.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“I would prefer it if you came with us, but ultimately, the priority is to catch the culprit by any means necessary. Even if you don’t like them.”

He’s right, is the thing. Hank _knows_ he’s right. Knows that Fowler would send Connor off without a second thought, would probably snap at Hank for not doing this sooner, would keep him sat behind his shitty desk, useless and alone while Connor was out trying to find some android-hating psycho.

“And what if I say _fucking no, that’s a fucking order_?” Hank leans across his desk, teeth gritted. Connor’s face stays blank, but he shifts his weight forward, eyes boring into Hank’s.

“Then I’ll have to disobey,” he says simply.

Hank stares. Connor stares back. Simon awkwardly clears his throat.

“ _Fine_ ,” Hank spits, and Connor’s answering smile is blinding, “But you stay in contact with me at all times and you wear tracking devices. And in the field, if I say not to do something, you don’t fucking do it. Clear?”

“Crystal,” says Simon, and Connor gives a nod.

“Fucking fantastic,” Hank says drily, and gets to his feet.

“Where are you going, Lieutenant?” Connor asks, and Hank wants to say “ _It’s Hank. Call me by my name, I want to hear you say it again_.” He wants to say, “ _This is stupid, we should be planning something, literally anything else_.” He wants to say, “ _I don’t want you to do this, because I’ve been reading every goddamn email you’ve ever sent, and I don't want you to get hurt._ ”

“I’m letting Fowler know,” he says instead, “You get the equipment and shit ready and run Simon through what we know.”

“Understood,” Connor says, and Hank walks away.

The ball of anxiety in his stomach only grows with every step towards Fowler’s office.

* * *

The Lieutenant doesn’t say a word, in the car. They’ve decided to park near the middle of where these attacks seem to be taking place, so Simon can cover one half and Connor the other. Preparing for this mission had been interesting and exciting, and Connor had been eager to discuss the logistics, but Hank hadn’t contributed much. In fact, he seemed to look less and less comfortable with every hour that drew near. Now, staring blankly at the road ahead, he looks pale, almost ill. Connor runs a scan, takes in the elevated heart rate. He’s nervous.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?” he inquires quietly, knowing that Simon could hear them from the back regardless of the volume of his voice, but not wanting to put the Lieutenant on the spot.

“Peachy,” Hank says bluntly, sounding the complete opposite. Connor frowns, turns to look out of his window.

He’s not stupid, nor is he reckless. He understands this could be dangerous, but he also understands that he doesn’t feel pain. He’d even turned most of his touch sensors off, on the unlikely chance that he could get hurt by someone. He knows there’s a risk, and he understands that Hank seems to care about his well-being, but his reaction seems a little disproportionate to their relationship. Hank seems like he’s worried for a friend, for someone he knows well, instead of a colleague he’s been working with for a few weeks.

Not that it bothers Connor. He does like the Lieutenant.

He turns to look at him again. Takes in shaggy grey hair, the lines on his forehead, the strong, weathered hands gripping the wheel. He’s a kind man, and good at his job, and he’s caring, despite his attempts to hide it with his outward demeanour. Connor likes him, wants to know him, wants to understand. Wants to know why he cares about Connor the way he seems to, and what kind of caring it is.

Hank exhales through his nose, jaw clenching. Connor watches the skin move, how it twitches.

He knows, about Hank’s son. He’d found an article, when he'd looked up more information on the man. He hadn't meant to, had just wanted to gather more information on his partner, on Hank's career, on who he was. But he found it, and he read it, and he knows. He knows about the accident, about how an android had failed to save the boy, Cole Anderson, just turned six. He understands that loss leads to fear of losing others, which could explain his apprehension for this mission.

There’s an unwelcome bitterness that comes with the thought of Hank viewing him as a child, as a son. It’s not the kind of caring Connor wants from him.

He doesn’t know what kind of caring he wants from him.

“We’re here,” Hank says flatly, stopping the car.

“Are we still agreed on how this is gonna go?” Simon asks as they exit the car, fiddling with the tracker they’d stuck to his hip. He pulls his shirt down to hide it, brushing his hair away so his LED is completely visible.

“Yes,” Connor says, tugging at his own shirt. It feels strange to not be wearing his police uniform, and he misses the comfort it brings, to wear something with a connection to Daddy Long Legs. The shirt he’s wearing now is plain, grey, stolen out of Detective Reed’s locker.

“ _Borrowed_ ,” Hank had said, when he grabbed it. Connor hadn’t pointed out that borrowing involved asking permission. He finds he doesn't particularly care if Reed ever gets it back.

“I’ll be monitoring both of you,” Hank says again, brow furrowed like he’s saying it mostly for his own benefit, “And you will both be talking to me the whole time. Understood?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor says, giving the man a tentative smile. Hank’s eyes follow the movement of his lips, but he doesn’t smile back.

“Alright,” Simon says, “Shall we?”

Connor opens his mouth, looks at Hank. Hank’s jaw twitches again, teeth clenching and unclenching methodically.

“Go,” he tells him, and gets back into the car. The excitement Connor had been feeling disappears.

“See you later,” Simon says, and starts walking. Connor waits, watches him walk until he’s a decent distance away.

He opens Hank’s car door.

“What?” Hank asks, brash and annoyed. 

“I will be fine, Lieutenant,” Connor says, “I just want you to know that.”

Hank looks at him for a quiet few seconds, blue eyes boring into his.

“Just go, Connor,” he says, quieter this time. Tired. Worried. Connor wants to argue, wants to ask why he’s so concerned, wants to ask why the man doesn’t think Connor can do this, why he still doesn't trust Connor to do a job he was literally made to do.

He closes the door and walks off in the opposite direction, hand sliding into his pocket and fingers finding his coin.

The first hour is uneventful. Connor walks slowly, taking care to go through alleyways and poorly lit areas. It’s dark, the moon high in the sky, and this part of town is eerily quiet. He understands why it would make a good hunting ground.

“ _How’s things_?” comes Simon’s voice in his head, calm and steady.

“ _Nothing to report so far_ ,” Connor replies, “ _Though I am reaching the end of my designated zon_ e.”

“ _Same here_ ,” Simon says, “ _We’ll probably have to circle around some. We don’t know when exactly this guy is gonna be around, if he even shows up_.”

“ _It is unlikely_ ,” Connor admits, “ _His last victim wasn’t long ago, so he may want to wait before striking again. We’ll probably have to come back_.”

“Everything okay?” It’s the Lieutenant, this time, his voice scratchy in Connor’s ear. He sounds impatient, on edge.

“Fine, Lieutenant,” Connor says quietly, “Nothing to report so far.”

“Okay.” Hank’s voice disappears. It’s silent for a bit.

“ _You and the Lieutenant seem close_ ,” Simon says, matter-of-factly, “ _Have you been working together long?_ ”

“ _No, not really_.” Connor stops for a moment, looks up at the sky. His vision is better than humans’, but even he’s having trouble seeing stars. Detroit is cloudy tonight – expecting rain.

“ _I don’t understand it, really_ ,” he says to Simon then, walking on, “ _I feel as though I’ve known him for longer than I have. As though we’re friends, companions. He’s pleasant to talk to, and I feel as though I trust him. I feel like I know him, even if I don’t_.”

“ _You don’t have to have known a person for a long time to know them_ ,” Simon says, and he sounds amused, “ _Some people just click_.”

“ _Have you experienced this?_ ” Connor asks, curious.

“ _In a way_ ,” Simon says, “ _Though I suppose now we’ve known each other for a long time. Still, my closeness with Markus increased very rapidly, at the beginning._ ”

“ _Markus?_ ”

“ _Yes, Connor. We met shortly after he’d become Deviant, when he found Jericho. He was charismatic, took on the role of leader with ease, and in doing so, we became close. It happened fast, and soon, but I cared for him, and he for me.  Sometimes these things don’t follow the usual timeline_.”

“ _I know I care for the Lieutenant_ ,” Connor tells him, “ _But I don’t know to what extent_.”

“ _Perhaps as a friend_ ,” Simon says, “ _Or maybe a mentor, of sorts?_ ”

“ _No_ ,” Connor shakes his head slightly as he walks, “ _That’s someone else. The Lieutenant’s relationship to me is difficult to define_.”

“ _So don’t define it_ ,” Simon says simply, “ _Not everything needs a label_.”

Connor plays the words over. It sounds strange, to not have a name for something and not having that be an issue. He feels like he wants to have a word for it, wants to know what he is to the Lieutenant, so he can act accordingly.

“ _Connor_.”

“ _Yes, Simon?_ ”

“ _I can’t warn Lieutenant Anderson. Someone’s following me_.”

Connor freezes.

“Lieutenant,” he says, already looking up Simon’s location in his mind, “Simon’s being followed.”

“ _Shit_. On my way. Simon, stay in touch with Connor.”

Connor quickly ducks down an alleyway, heading to where Simon’s dot is. It’s moving, faster than Connor’s moving. Coming his direction.

“ _Are you running?_ ” Connor asks, and he doesn’t get a response. Then, suddenly, his vision’s red. A distress signal.

He starts running. Simon’s dot is coming closer and closer, and Connor strains his hearing. In the distance, footsteps.

“ _I’m coming_ ,” Connor tells him, “ _I’m almost there, I -_ ”

There’s a crash. Simon screams.

Connor turns the corner, pulling the gun the Lieutenant had given him out of his pocket. He has enough time to process Simon on the ground, arm twisted behind his back in an unnatural position, and a flash of blonde hair and cold grey eyes, and then the man lunges at him.

Connor dodges to the side just in time, avoids the hit aimed at his face, and the man curses. Connor turns, and then there’s a loud hissing sound. Hot metal, just catching the side of his hip. He doesn’t feel it, but there’s a sickly smell of burnt plastic, and an error warning flashing in the corner of his vision.

An arm goes around his neck, squeezing tight, and Connor kicks back. The branding instrument goes flying, and a hand grabs at his hair, harshly pulling him back, trying to get a better grip.

Connor struggles, twists in the attacker’s grasp, turns and punches him in the throat.

He stumbles backwards, and just as they hear footsteps in the distance, just as Connor jumps in front of Simon to protect him and just as the culprit turns and runs, Connor sees his face.

 “ _Shit!_ ” It’s Hank, running towards them, gun drawn and held in firm, steady hands. “What the fuck happened? Where is he?!”

“Simon is injured,” Connor says automatically, eyes closing as he focuses on the memory, saving it, replicating it, enhancing it. He does so with care, more than he usually allocates to memories he wants to keep, but this one isn’t one he can afford to forget. The smell of plastic is stronger now, and absentmindedly, he traces his fingers over where the brand had caught him.

They come back blue.

“Aw, _shit_ ,” Hank curses again, blanching at the sight of the blood, and Connor shakes his head.

“It’s superficial. Simon, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Simon says, cautiously getting to his feet, “He just dislocated my arm. Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

“You’re both _damn_ fucking lucky,” Hank spits as he comes to Connor’s side, and his hand wavers above Connor’s hip, eyes trained on the blood, “Fuck, I _knew_ this was a shit idea.”

“It was our only option, Lieutenant,” Connor starts, “And besides, I -”

“Shut it,” Hank snaps, and his voice shakes, “We’re getting you both to Jericho, now. I’m assuming your people will be able to help him too?”

“Really, Lieutenant, I’m perfectly fine,” Connor tries, but Hank ignores him, turning his head away.

“Of course,” says Simon, his good hand coming to gently rest on his other arm. It’s twisted back at the shoulder, awkward and excruciatingly painful if it happened to a human. The Lieutenant winces, makes sure to walk on Simon’s other side to avoid touching it as they head back to the car.

He doesn’t look at Connor once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all your lovely comments - they mean the world to me, and I'm so glad this fic has gotten this much attention!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is up my guys! i just wanted to say thank you again for all your support - it makes me so happy you have no idea!!!! Also I really hope you like this chapter - I've rewritten it like 15 times and Im still really nervous about it ghfgfghjg but anyways time for some FLUFF

Markus is waiting for them, when they reach Jericho. He’s sitting on the steps just outside the door, arms resting on his thighs and head bowed forward. As the car approaches, he looks up, and even from a distance, Hank can tell he’s _pissed_. In his rear-view mirror, he sees Simon swallow, and sink into his seat.

“Fucking A,” Hank mutters, stopping the car.

“Let me explain it to him,” Simon says quickly as they get out, Connor wrapping a steadying arm around his waist.

“Good luck with that,” Hank says flatly, and walks towards the steps.

“You had no right, Lieutenant,” Mark says quietly as he approaches, and his voice may be soft and level but the tone is absolutely _lethal_ nonetheless.

“I know,” Hank says, because what else is he supposed to say? It’s not like they have anything to show for it apart from an injured android that should have never gotten injured in the first place. Sorry just doesn’t fucking cut it.

“It’s alright, Markus,” Simon says, giving him a reassuring smile as he and Connor reach them, and the icy glare Markus sends him is enough to make Hank feel chilly. Simon’s smile fades and he goes quiet, lets Connor help him inside. When they reach the stairs, Markus takes over, and despite his stony expression, his touch is achingly careful as he pulls Simon away from Connor.

“I’m really fine,” Simon whispers as Markus leads him up, “I’m not hurt.”

“Your arm is dislocated,” Markus says bluntly, “You’re hurt. As is Connor.”

Connor’s walking beside Hank, silent as they follow the other pair. At the mention of his name, he glances up, then at Hank.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he says, and Hank grits his teeth.

“They came to my aid before anything happened, Markus,” Simon murmurs as they reach the landing and walk towards Markus’s office. The house is quiet – no other androids in sight. Hank wonders if that’s because they’re sleeping, or because Markus told them to leave. He doesn’t ask.

“I can relocate your arm without using any parts,” Markus says clinically as they enter his office, slowly lowering Simon into a chair, “Connor’s burn however will require a B6570 component.”

“So you can help him?” Hank asks, and Markus’s nod, however terse, is a relief.

“Markus, really, you can attend to Connor first,” Simon protests as Markus kneels next to him, nimble brown fingers unbuttoning Simon’s shirt to gain access to his arm.

“Connor and Lieutenant Anderson can wait in the room across the hall,” Markus snaps, “If your arm stays like this it could damage your components further.”

“Markus,” Simon says, and it’s his turn to sound irritated. Markus’s eyes snap up to him, and in the soft golden light of the office, they stand out – blue and green and _furious_.

“That’s _enough_ , Simon,” he says, “Do you have any idea how reckless this was? How dangerous? You could have gotten killed!” His voice rises as he speaks, and his hands shake almost imperceptibly as they move up to Simon’s shoulder. With his other arm, Simon moves his hand to cover Markus’s.

“But I wasn’t,” he insists softly, “I’m here, Markus. I needed to do this – I needed to _help_. And I’m here.”

“I could have lost you,” Markus says, “ _Again_.” His voice cracks on the last word, angry and scared and human, unflinchingly human.

Simon moves, hand going up to cup Markus’s cheek.  He smiles, soft and comforting, and Markus’s eyes close.

“I’m here, Markus,” he murmurs again, their skin deactivating where they’re touching. Softly, he presses their foreheads together, and Markus sighs, shaky and far too vulnerable for Hank to feel comfortable watching. He takes hold of Connor’s arm.

“Let’s go,” he whispers, ignoring how Connor’s wide brown eyes go from curious and contemplative to confused as he pulls them out of the room.

“I’m sure Markus wasn’t adamant we wait in a separate room, Lieutenant,” Connor says as Hank drags him across the hall.

“They need some privacy, right now,” Hank says, opening the first door they come across. The room behind it is empty, and there’s a few chairs, up against the wall. It’ll do. He flicks on the light, closes the door behind them.

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, cautious as Hank walks resolutely over to one of the chairs, dragging it forward a little so they’ll have some more space.

“Sit,” Hank says, clipped. Connor looks at him, goddamn brown puppy eyes doing that fucking confused thing again. But he does what he’s told, sitting down and looking up at Hank like he’s concerned for him.

“Lift your shirt,” Hank says, going over to grab a seat for himself.

“Really, Lieutenant, it is only a superficial wound,” Connor tries, and God, Hank wants to _scream_.

“Would you just do it? For once, would you just fucking do as I say?” He drops into his chair, exhausted and frustrated beyond belief.

Connor lifts his shirt. Hank sighs.

“Thank you,” he says, and gingerly reaches forward to trace Connor’s hip. Blue blood covers the skin, and it’s dripped down and soaked into the material of his pants. The skin around the area is deactivated, so Hank can see how the white plastic or whatever Connor’s body is made of has melted, the attempted branding having just left a barely recognisable “G” charred into him.

“It doesn’t hurt, Lieutenant,” says Connor softly, hesitantly.

“That’s not the fucking point,” Hank says stiffly, running the tip of his forefinger over the ugly letter. It reminds him of when he’d accidentally baked pizza on a plastic board in the oven, how it had melted around the rack, how strange it had felt when it had cooled and solidified. He pulls his finger away. It’s stained blue.

“What is the point?” Connor asks, patient voice wavering as his brows furrow, “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” Hank says, and gets to his feet, “I’m gonna go get… Something, I don’t know.” He goes to walk away. Connor grabs his wrist.

“Explain,” he says stubbornly, and his grip is like a vice.

“Jesus, Connor, do I have to spell it out? I knew it was dangerous, and I let you go anyway, and now here we are.” Angrily, Hank tugs his arm. Connor’s grip tightens.

“Blaming yourself is irrational,” he says, “We were aware this could happen, and I am not badly damaged. I cannot feel pain, Lieutenant.”

“As you keep fucking saying,” Hank growls, and yanks his arm back again. Connor shifts forward slightly, but doesn’t let go.

“I don’t understand why you are angry with me,” he says, head tilted up to meet Hank’s eyes.

“It’s not that, just – For fuck’s sake, let go!”

“You are upset, clearly I must have done something wrong. I cannot act on it unless you tell me what.” Connor’s voice is louder now, clear and bold, LED flashing yellow as he processes, processes, _processes_.

“Because you could have died, you asshole!” Hank shouts, “And fuck me for not wanting that to happen!”

“But I didn’t die,” Connor says, and he’s still staring up at him with those goddamn brown eyes, beautiful and unbreakable and still so fucking _trusting_ , despite having the beginnings of a slur burned into his body because of him, and Hank _snaps_.

“You got yourself hurt, like I fucking knew you would, and it could have been worse. So I’m pissed, because I shouldn’t have let you do this, because you could have gotten killed and even though you’re the most frustrating android that ever walked the planet, I don’t want you to _die_!” He’s breathing heavily, anger and delayed adrenaline and guilt making his blood boil. Connor stares at him, silent.

“You care if I get hurt,” he says then. His voice is quiet, contemplative.

“Yeah, it’s called having basic empathy,” Hank spits, “And it was all for fucking nothing, we didn’t even catch the guy. I put you in danger, for fuck all.”

“You care about putting me in dangerous situations,” Connor repeats, standing up. He still has to look up at him, even standing, and it’s the first time Hank actually realises Connor’s several inches shorter than him.

“Congratulations, your listening skills are top of the line,” Hank quips, and Connor’s still holding his goddamn wrist.

“You care about me,” Connor says, and then Hank freezes as he takes a step forward, right into his personal space, “Even though it makes no logical sense for a Lieutenant to be this worried about a simple co-worker.”

“Connor,” Hank says warningly, giving his arm another half-hearted pull. Connor pauses, brown eyes scanning his face, trying to read him, like he’s done so many times when he thinks Hank isn’t paying attention.

“Why do you care, Lieutenant?” he asks then, voice impossibly soft, “How do you see me?”

And Hank’s fucked, he’s so fucked. Because Connor’s right, it makes no sense for him to be attached to the android the way he is, but he doesn’t know that Hank’s read all his emails, that he knows so much about him, that he’s marvelled at the way Connor thinks, that Connor’s smile when he got his DPD jacket made Hank feel worth something again, that Connor’s never-ending curiosity and terrible people skills are frustrating and endearing at the same time, that Hank’s only human and hasn’t spent this much time solely with one person in years. Connor doesn’t know, he doesn’t know that Hank’s lying to him, and Hank needs to tell him, right now, before he fucks this up beyond any hope of repair.

“Hank,” Connor says then, and it’s pleading, hopeful, scared. Brave enough to be vulnerable, braver than Hank.

“Because you _matter_ , Connor,” Hank says desperately, pathetically, stupidly. Connor’s eyes widen, and there’s a terrifying second where Hank thinks he _knows_ , but then Connor takes another step forward and everything comes shrieking to a halt as he presses his lips against Hank’s.

There’s a split second where Hank is frozen, staring into Connor’s still open eyes as the android awkwardly keeps their lips pushed together. Then, Connor’s grip on his wrist falters, and he shifts like he’s going to pull away, and Hank should let him. Hank should push him back, tell him he can’t, tell him everything.

He doesn’t.

He fists his free hand into Connor’s dumb, blood-stained shirt and holds him there, kissing him back. The android makes a muffled sound of surprise, and he’s sloppy in his kisses, eager and inexperienced and too fast. Hank’s hand moves to Connor’s neck, gentle as he rubs his thumb in circles against the soft, _soft_ skin there.

“Easy,” he murmurs against Connor’s lips, and they start again. This time, Connor lets him take the lead, closes his eyes when Hank does, matches his pace. He’s hesitant, still, but when Hank licks across his bottom lip, his mouth falls open like he’s been doing this for years. A fast learner.

There’s a part of Hank’s brain that’s screaming as they kiss, constant and loud as Connor lets go of his wrist and moves both hands to Hank’s chest, feeling the fabric of his coat. It screams as Hank rests a hand on Connor’s damaged hip, screams as he sweeps his tongue across Connor’s, tastes the strange synthetic spit that’s strangely minty. It’s a scream of guilt, of “ _This is so wrong, he trusts you, he doesn’t know you’re lying, you’re taking advantage, you’re a disgusting person_ ,” and Hank wants to stop all of it, wants to push Connor away and come clean, but then Connor _moans_ , honest-to-God moans against his lips, quiet and needy and so fucking lovely that the rational part of Hank’s brain short-circuits.

“Fuck,” he gasps, breaking away for air, and when he opens his eyes to look at Connor’s face he learns two separate things at once.

First, androids can blush, and when they do, they blush blue.

Second, Connor looks absolutely goddamn beautiful after he’s been kissed.

The android laughs then, soft and almost reverent, cheeks tinted beryl and lips shiny with spit.

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he tells Hank then, deft fingers tracing the collar of Hank’s shirt where it meets his skin.

“Huh?” Hank asks, fighting back a shiver at how human it feels, to have Connor stroke his chest like this.

“The man who attacked Simon”, Connor says, “I saw his face. It’s in my memory. This wasn’t for nothing.”

“You…?” Hank trails off, shocked. Connor grins, nods.

“We can run it through the database, at the station,” he says, and damn if he doesn’t sound smug. Hank laughs, more out of disbelief than anything, and then, because he’s already fucked everything up and Connor’s leaning into him, he kisses him again.

Through lidded eyes, he can see the yellow light of Connor’s LED, spinning rapidly before going back to blue.

“Whatcha thinking?” Hank murmurs, and Connor shakes his head.

“M’not,” he says, “Just turning on sensors.”

“Sensors?” Hank pulls back slightly, and Connor makes a small sound of annoyance at the loss.

“Androids can’t feel pain, but some are equipped with sensors to feel some things, like different materials and pressures and something akin to human skin-on-skin contact, for pleasurable reasons.” He leans forward, kisses Hank again, and there it is again, that soft moan that Hank wants to record and replay for the rest of his goddamn life.

“So, in English, that means…?” He trails off, lips brushing Connor’s, and the android rolls his eyes.

“It means I can feel this, and it feels nice,” he says impatiently, arms coming up to wrap around Hank’s neck.

“Oh,” Hank says, because _well then_. As Connor kisses him, he’s suddenly overwhelmed by curiosity for just how much Connor can feel, and how it feels to him. Gently, experimentally, he pulls Connor’s bottom lip into his mouth, bites down ever so softly.

Connor gasps. Hank grins against his mouth.

“Again,” Connor whispers, and Hank wants to, wants to bite at other places, wants to see if Androids can get hickies, but then the fucking door opens. Hank springs back like he’s been electrocuted.

“Apologies,” Markus says smoothly, “I’ve got the component, for Connor.”

“Sure, uh,” Hank gestures uselessly at Connor, “Knock yourself out.”

Connor ducks his head, hiding a smile as he sits back down in his chair. As Markus joins him and lifts his shirt to access his hip, brown eyes find Hank’s, and then, because this wasn’t surreal enough, the bastard _winks_.

“You’re lucky the burn didn’t go any deeper than this,” Markus says, expert fingers finding the right places to press against, and Hank, who is decidedly not looking at Connor’s face and is most definitely not blushing, watches as Markus pulls part of Connor’s hip away.

“The brand starts just a little to the left of this component,” Markus says thoughtfully, “so you will still have somewhat of a mark, here.” He presses gently at the side of Connor’s stomach, where a thin line is burned into his endoskeleton, “Once we replace this component and you reactivate your skin, it will be practically invisible, and will cause no damage to the rest of your body.”

“You’re saying he’ll have a scar?” Hank asks, and Markus nods, giving Connor a reassuring smile as he places the new component in its place, a soft clicking noise confirming that it fits.

“Thank you, Markus,” Connor says, and the white of his endoskeleton is once again covered by pale skin. The thin line on the side of his stomach is covered, and looks sort of bumpy, like one of the many old, faint scars that Hank owns himself.

It’s an imperfection on a machine designed to be perfect, and that suddenly makes Connor appear so much more human.

“I think I like this, actually,” Connor says thoughtfully, tracing the scar with his finger, “It’s like a physical reminder of something I experienced.”

“Shows you had an impact,” Hank says, without thinking. He says it because it’s true, because that damn job application is always in the back of his mind whenever Connor does anything, because he’s been watching Connor struggle to do things that matter, struggle to make sense of things, and he’s watched him make an impact in tiny ways every goddamn day. It makes sense in the context of Daddy Long Legs, in those emails Hank’s read and never replied to; emails that Connor doesn’t know were sent to him.

Connor looks up, surprised. Hank stops breathing.

“I suppose so,” Connor says then, and he looks somewhat unsure for a moment, LED spinning. Then almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head, turns his attention back to Markus.

“Thank you, Markus,” he says politely, and Markus nods.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, and then, “I apologise, for my behaviour earlier. Simon is… Very dear to me. I was worried.”

“It’s fine,” Hank says, trying not to show how stressed he feels, “You were looking out for someone you loved, makes sense to get snappy.”

“Love,” Markus repeats, softly, and smiles. “Yes, I suppose that is the right word.”

“Were you not aware of this?” Hank says wryly, and Markus laughs.

“I was, but I had yet to put it into words. Feelings are complicated, still,” he says, and Hank snorts.

“You’re telling me,” he says, and he does _not_ glance at Connor as he says it.

“They are worth the confusion, though,” Markus says then, blue and green eyes watching Hank with an unnervingly patient and knowing glint in them.

“Sure,” Hank says, “I think we better head out.”

“Of course.”

Markus leads them to the front door, wishes them a good night as they step out into the cold air. Hank barely hears him, his entire attention focused on how Connor’s knuckles bump against his as they walk, too methodical to be an accident.

Hank drives them back to the station, trying very hard not to notice how Connor watches him the entire time, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He’s fucked. He’s so, _so_ fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehujcvhjklkhgfgh hope u liked it, comments are my lifeblood


	12. Chapter 12

**_Sender: Connor_ **   
**_Subject: Report_ **

_Dear Daddy,_

_You will be pleased to know that Lieutenant Anderson and I have discovered the identity of the man behind the android attacks. Our mission was successful in that I was able to see his face, and finding him in the police database was easier than anticipated. He has a history of assault, and before the revolution, he had received multiple fines for damaging androids. His name is Felix Kells, and we were just informed that he was arrested this morning. They found what he used to brand androids with in his bedroom – a sort of adapted Taser that he’d made himself. He is currently being held at the station, and though a first interrogation proved unsuccessful, I have spent today gathering more information that will hopefully be useful when we interrogate him again tomorrow._

_Also, Lieutenant Anderson and I kissed._

_I hope you won’t be angry Daddy, I know it isn’t appropriate to act like that in a professional setting. But we were waiting for my component to be replaced – a minor injury, nothing severe, but the Lieutenant was extremely stressed about my situation. At first I thought he might be angry at me, and I was struggling to understand, but when I confronted him… It appears he cares for me more than I originally thought._

_It’s fast, I know, and sudden. I barely know the man, and he barely knows me – not like you do, anyway. But he is observant, intelligent, and the things he says make me feel as though he understands me completely. And I like him, Daddy, I like him a lot. I had absolutely no experience of kissing prior to this, but it was a very pleasant sensation. His beard was ticklish._

_Did you know that before turning Deviant, I couldn’t feel anything? I was equipped with sensors, but they were always off, and I was never told to turn them on. I feel as though if I had, I would have gone Deviant a lot sooner. There is so much to feel, so many materials, so many sensations. Have you been kissed, Daddy? I assume you have. Does it get less overwhelming as time goes on? I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it. If I’ll have the chance to get used to it in the first place._

_After we found Kells in the database, the Lieutenant asked me where I was staying. He seemed displeased when I told him my address, said it was a “shitty neighbourhood”. I said I didn’t mind it, really. But then he said I could “crash at his”. He explained it was to save time, so we could both get to the office and get started right away, instead of waiting for each other. He seemed embarrassed by offering, somewhat surprised when I said yes. I don’t know why he would think I’d say no, seeing as the alternative is sitting awake in an empty apartment. Besides, I like being near him._

_I am currently on his couch. He has a dog, a St Bernard named Sumo, who knocked me down when he first saw me. But I did not mind - I like dogs, and this one is very big. He seems to enjoy my presence. He keeps drooling on me. The Lieutenant’s house is somewhat messy, and dog hair seems to get everywhere, but I like it. It’s simple, but it’s warm. There was a photo of his son on the table, but I didn’t mention it. He does not seem like the type of man who likes to reminisce, and I am unsure he feels close enough to me to be able to talk about these things._

_When we first got in, before Sumo came to greet us, I wondered if the Lieutenant would kiss me again. I know I wanted him to. But he didn’t. He seemed rather reserved this evening. He said he was tired, so I didn’t want to question him, but there’s something on his mind. I don’t want to be egotistical and assume it concerns me, but I am nervous, I suppose._

_I just hope he doesn’t regret it._

_I will let you know how the interrogation goes. And how things develop with the Lieutenant. Perhaps you have some advice for me, Daddy? I know the rules stipulate that you cannot reply, but my training period ends soon. One response won’t hurt._

_Yours, Connor._

* * *

 

Felix Kells has the air of a man who was raised to believe he was superior to everyone, in every way, and never discovered this wasn’t true in the slightest. He sits at the interrogation table like a bored high schooler, impatiently tapping his fingers against the surface, and when Hank walks in, Connor on his heels, he lets out a disgusted scoff.

“Of fucking course,” he says, “They even have plastic detectives, now.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve had human assholes for centuries, so it’s about time we get some decent folk working for us,” Hank says coldly, as he sits down opposite the man. Connor stands by the wall, face schooled into a perfectly neutral expression. He hadn’t been in the room yesterday – Hank didn’t want him too close, so he’d just observed. But this morning he’d asked, and Hank said yes. Partially because he figured Felix would be unnerved by his presence, which could help things, and partially because, well. Connor had asked.

“I’m not saying anything without my goddamn attorney present,” says Felix, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms across his chest. Hank laughs, humourless and clipped.

“We called her,” he says, “Turns out she’s part of the people who left Detroit. Not that she’d make any goddamn difference, considering the evidence we have on you.”

“You have nothing,” Felix spits, “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Hank raises his eyebrows, and opens the file he brought with him. He'd put it together with Connor last night, before they'd gone to his home. Just them at the station, Hank compiling all the physical evidence they had, Connor with his eyes closed, contacting Markus, getting statements. The androids at Jericho had been far more open to talking about what happened to them now that the guy had been caught, and Connor had been eager to gather any sort of information he could. He'd chattered about the case the entire drive back, stopping only when Sumo barrelled into him and knocked him on the floor. And God, it was so weird to have him there, laughing as Sumo sniffed and licked at him, walking into his living room like he belonged there, sinking into the sofa like he'd been there thousands of times before. And Hank had panicked, had made some bullshit excuse, had hidden away in his room and gone over the case, pretending he wasn't listening out to hear Connor softly speak to his dog.

And now here he is, sleep-deprived but wide awake, trying not to be distracted by Connor in his peripheral vision as the shitbag criminal in front of him sneers and rolls his eyes.

“Over 20 known androids you attacked,” Hank says bluntly, “10 of which are willing to testify against you. We found the weapon you used in your bedroom, and my partner here saw you attack an android with his own eyes.”

“He can’t prove that,” Felix says, a cruel smile playing on his lips, “And all those other androids are lying. They’re deviant, it’s what they do.”

God, but he is a prick. His voice is nasally, entitled, and he keeps flicking his hair back. Hank almost considers taking a page from Gavin's book and " _roughing him up a little_ ". 

“The thing about androids,” Hank says, “Is that they’re able to record what they see and remember it like it’s happening in real time. It’s quite cool.” He learns forward, meets Kells’s eyes head on. “We got you on goddamn video. High Definition, surround sound.”

“You’re lying,” Felix says dismissively, “I’ve got nothing to hide, so you can stop with the bad cop technique.”

“Your heart rate has risen significantly,” Connor says from where he’s standing, “And your stress levels are high. Clearly, you are hiding something.”

“Shut up, you fucking freak,” Kells spits, curling his right hand into a fist. His index finger is missing, stops at the first knuckle.

“How’d you lose your finger?” Hank asks, calm and collected.

“None of your fucking business.”

“I think it is,” Hank says, “Connor?”

“He reported being attacked by his android, a few years ago,” Connor states, flawlessly repeating what he’d found out yesterday during his research, “The android in question was badly damaged after months of abuse. He bit off Kells’s finger in self-defence. Though the android was shut down, Kells was not reimbursed for his purchase, as Cyberlife stated that the android’s deviance was caused by the damage his owner had done to his system.”

“And that pissed you off, I assume,” Hank says, giving Kells an insincere smile. The man in front of him is red in the face, glaring.

“They’re goddamn fucking machines,” he spits, “And now they act like they’re more than that, and we have to pay for it.”

“So you got upset because you played too rough and got what was coming to you,” Hank says flatly, “Forgive me if I’m not moved.”

“I’m not saying anything fucking else,” Felix shouts, “Especially not when there’s a goddamn tin can acting like he’s superior to me.” He turns to Connor, seething.

“You’re nothing but a goddamn programming error,” he says, “Nothing but a fucking -”

“Glitch?” Hank finishes, pushing a picture of one of the wounded androids towards him. Markus had sent it to them yesterday, and the brand was clear across the android’s stomach.

Felix looks away, says nothing.

“For the record,” Hank says, “I can say with absolutely certainty that every android I have ever come across is superior to you.” He leans forward, lowers his voice and sneers, “At least what they did actually made a positive impact on the world. You? Not so much. A loser with a God complex.”

"As opposed to you?" Felix retorts, "I know who you are, Lieutenant. Skipping into the middle of that fucking fight and ruining society as we know it. Technically, you could say that all of this is your fucking fault."

Connor tenses ever so slightly. Hank doesn't take his eyes away from Kells, calmly shrugs his shoulders.

"I had to choose a side, so I did. I happen to think it's the right one, considering all the assholes I've ever sent to jail in this world were human. Your society was just as shit before as it was now - the only difference is now you're being held responsible for the crimes you've pulled," he says, matter-of-fact. 

“I didn’t commit any fucking crimes,” Felix growls, stupid dirty blonde hair falling across his forehead like a failed Draco Malfoy cosplay, “They’re fucking machines that are broken, and whoever did this just reminded them of their fucking place.”

“By burning a handful of androids?” Connor asks then, voice cold, face completely devoid of emotion, “What difference does that make in the grand scheme of things?”

Kells glowers at him, teeth bared in a snarl.  Very much unnerved by Connor's presence. Hank tries very hard not to look smug.

“It reminds them, and you, that you’re fucking nothing,” Kells spits, “You’re just hunks of plastic, just goddamn mistakes. And the whole goddamn world is gonna see that, because now I’ve burned it into you.” He smiles again, cold and cruel and hating.

Connor raises a single, perfect eyebrow. Hank can't stop himself from grinning.

“So you admit you burned us?” Connor clarifies. Kells’s smile drops.

“Sounds an awful lot like a confession,” Hank says cheerfully, and gets to his feet, “Thanks, asshole.”

Felix doesn’t say anything, just sits with a furious expression as Officer Brown comes in to take him away. The second he’s uncuffed from the table, however, he shifts into motion, tearing himself away and lunging at Connor, hands outstretched.

Hank’s hand goes to his gun, mouth opening to shout, but Connor’s faster, so fast Hank barely sees him move. In a flash, he grabs Felix’s arm, steps sideways, and slams him into the wall, arm twisted behind his back. The sound of the impact rings in Hank's ears, and he stands there, dumb-founded.

“Attempted assault will be added to your file,” the android says flatly, still perfectly neutral in his demeanour. Felix yells, struggles against his grip. Connor holds firm, looking almost bored. Officer Brown springs into action, cuffs him again, and hauls him away.

“You alright?” Hank asks cautiously, and Connor nods, smoothing his shirt, cool as a cucumber.

“I was expecting it,” he says nonchalantly, “And I already scanned and memorised his fighting style from the other night. It was easy to anticipate his actions.”

“That was badass,” Hank says, “You’re acting like you just swatted a fly.”

Connor shrugs, but his cheeks turn ever so slightly blue.

“In some ways, it is an accurate comparison,” he says, and the sentence is accompanied by a shy but somehow still cocky smile, a barely-there turning of the lips. Hank stares.

“Right. Um. Are you sure you’re fine, though? He was saying some pretty fucked up shit. It’s okay if it got to you.”

Connor pauses thoughtfully.

“Perhaps it bothered me a little,” he says then, “But any discomfort was quelled after I slammed him into the wall. It was rather gratifying.”

“Of course,” Hank says weakly, because it really was, “I need coffee.”

He heads to the break room, empty this early in the morning, and goes straight to the coffee machine.

“Your daily intake of caffeine is higher than the suggested healthy amount, Lieutenant”, Connor informs him as he enters the room, “And it would be best to cut down to two sugars, instead of three.”

“You know,” Hank says, waiting for the machine to fill his cup, “If this Detective thing is too boring or you, you could be a damn good nutritionist. Then, you could make your comments to people who actually want to hear them.”

“I am merely concerned for your well-being, Lieutenant,” Connor says, frowning. Hank sighs.

“Let me worry about my own well-being, alright?” he says, and Connor opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but stops when Hank adds a second spoonful of sugar, and then stirs. He doesn’t add a third. Brown eyes meet his, questioning and hopeful.

“So you’ll stop yapping,” Hank tells him firmly, “Not because I agree with you.”

Connor grins, rocks forward on the balls of his feet, and kisses him squarely on the cheek.

“I’ll be at my desk, if you need me,” he says cheerily, and steps out of the room. Hank stands frozen, watches him go. Takes a sip of coffee, curses as he burns his tongue.

He’d read Connor’s email last night, in his bed, right after Connor had sent it. From Hank’s couch. In his living room. He’d very nearly gone in there to tell him of course he didn’t regret it, had wanted to press him into the decades old sofa and kiss him stupid. But that would mean telling him the truth.

He’s missed his chance, is the thing. And now, still feeling Connor’s lips against his cheek, Hank actually has something to lose. Before, he would maybe have lost a friend. Hurt a friend. It would have been shit, but it would have been easier than hurting whatever the fuck Connor is to him now.

He’s a goddamn idiot, he knows it. A hypocritical, lonely old man who doesn’t want to lose the affection of an android who thinks he’s good. Connor thinks he’s _good_ , thinks he’s worth this, wants to be around him. And God, Hank wants it too. Wants those brown eyes, that damn stray curl that Connor can’t tame, that smile and cocky attitude that’s really starting to come out, no longer confined to the emails.

The fucking emails. Hank feels sick.

What’s the point in upsetting him now? The training period ends so fucking soon, and then they can forget it. Hank can go on like nothing happened. He can keep pretending he’s the man Connor thinks he is, and at the very least, they can stay like this until Connor inevitably finds something better. Telling him now is pointless.

Hank takes another gulp of coffee, throws the half-empty cup into the bin, and walks back to his desk.

He pretends Connor’s warm smile as he approaches doesn’t make his chest ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi this one is a sad one, sorry in advance
> 
> in case you want some mood music/want to listen to what I had to listen to while writing this bit in particular, here's the two songs: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7VaASAKjLQk  
>  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sScaYZ1bRrE
> 
> ALSO thank you guys so much for your comments!!! also everyone keeps saying i write fast - I DON'T! this fic is just already completely finished (took me like a solid two weeks of none stop writing), so now i'm just editing and updating daily! but thank u sm ily all!!!!

**_Sender: Connor  
Subject: Report_ **

_Dear Daddy,_

_Felix Kells goes to trial next month. It is unsure how long the process will take, but Lieutenant Anderson assures me he will go to prison for something, at least. With over 20 cases of aggravated assault, video evidence and Simon's testimony, as well as other androids' testimonies - it's impossible that he will get off scot-free._

_If I’m honest, I’m nervous. It’ll be the first time I’ll be in court, and I don’t know how many other androids will be there. It’s an open court, and since the media caught Markus and Simon leaving the DPD after making their statements, it’s garnered quite a bit of attention._

_I’m sure you’ve heard about it. And I know Detective Johnson will be there. She’s told me she’s proud of me, which was nice. But her approval, as kind as it is, really isn’t the one I’m hoping for._

_It’s next month, Daddy. My training period is coming to an end, and Fowler says as long as I have passed the end examination, for which I will receive my results next week, I am welcome to stay at the DPD. I may even work as Lieutenant Anderson’s partner. I’ve followed your rules, despite bending them a little. Surely you can tell me who you are, now?_

_Please come, to the hearing. You don’t have to stay long, just come introduce yourself._

_I’m afraid I will be very upset with you if you do not show._

_Yours, Connor._

* * *

 

“Mr. Kells, due to the overwhelming evidence and statements against you, as well as the verdict from the jury, you are hereby sentenced to fifteen years in prison.”

Hank buries his face in his hands. In the back of the courtroom, where several dozen androids had gathered at the beginning of the hearing, it sounds as though all of them cried out as one. Pain. Anger. Disbelief.

“That’s fucking nothing,” Hank whispers, “He’s guilty of over 20 assaults. What the fuck.”

“This was expected,” Connor says next to him, but his face is blank, eyes wide. Shell shocked.

“It’s fucking bullshit,” Hank says, loudly. No one hears him over the angry shouting of humans and androids alike, but fuck, he’s seething.

“I am so sorry, Connor,” he says, and he knows the outcome of the hearing has nothing to do with him, but that’s not what he’s apologising for.

Connor had been almost giddy in the car, on the way here. On the edge of his seat, eyes wide, taking everything in. Detective Johnson had run up to him the second they’d arrived, grinning and proud and loudly chattering away, but Connor’s eyes had been everywhere but on her. Looking through the crowd, tensing every single time anyone over the age of 60 who was slightly taller than average passed by. Looking, scanning, waiting, and Hank was right fucking there at his side, making small talk while pretending he didn’t know what Connor was doing, who Connor was looking for. The closer it got to the hearing, the more energy Connor seemed to lose. And now here they were.

“Hm.” Connor just sits there, LED spinning yellow, hands clasped together on his lap.

“Are you okay?” Hank asks, a tentative hand coming to rest on the android’s shoulder. Connor blinks, looks up at him. His brow furrows, mouth opening uselessly like he can’t find the words.

Scared brown eyes meet his, and Hank pulls him to his feet.

“C’mon,” he says, and he doesn’t wait for Connor’s answer before he’s pulling him out of the courtroom, fighting their way through the crowd. Detective Johnson spots them, mouth opening on a question, but when Hank gives her a short shake of the head, she nods, and turns away. Simon and Markus stand near the door, stone-faced, but they don't see Hank and Connor as they move past, focused on each other, speaking in hushed tones. 

“Statistically, I had expected this verdict,” Connor says shakily as they reach the outside corridor, “I knew it wouldn’t be fair, not when the judge is human and things are still so unequal, despite Markus’s best efforts. My systems must be malfunctioning, I -”

“You’re not malfunctioning,” Hank says gently, leading him to a bench and sitting him down, “You hoped, despite your better judgment, and you were disappointed. It’s human. I did the same.”

He’s talking about Kells’ sentence, except he’s not.

Connor hesitates, glances towards the courtroom door that people are starting to leave through. He’s scanning the faces again, looking, searching. Trying to find someone who doesn't exist.

“I am disappointed,” Connor says then, “But I don’t think you’re entirely right. I just think that the result of the hearing was unfair, and although I was expecting it, it seemed to -” He struggles, blinks, and his eyes are shinier than usual.

“It was too much,” Hank finishes, voice quiet. Connor breathes in, looks towards the door again. A crowd of people, none of them who he wants to see. Connor’s face scrunches up.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says helplessly, and Hank’s chest aches.

“It’s pain, Connor,” he says, and pulls him into his arms. Connor’s fingers grasp at his back as he buries his face in Hank’s shoulder, and it takes everything Hank has to not start crying.

“ _I’m here, Connor_ ,” he wants to say, “ _I did come to the hearing. I just look like someone you already know. I’m here. I’m so, so sorry._ ”

He doesn’t say a word.

“I apologise,” Connor says then, pulling back, his face schooled back into that perfectly neutral expression that Hank suddenly can’t stand, “This isn’t professional. We should head back to the station.”

“Connor, I don’t think -”

“Please, Lieutenant.” Connor’s fingers wrap around Hank’s wrist, squeeze. Hank gets to his feet, leads him outside and to the parking lot.

“Thank you,” Connor says quietly as they get in the car, and turns his face to the window.

“Look, Con,” Hank starts, but Connor interrupts.

“I’m alright,” he says bluntly, “If you don’t mind, I have something I must attend to.” He closes his eyes, leans his head against the window, and Hank watches as his LED starts spinning, yellow to yellow to red.

He starts driving. A few minutes later, in his pocket, his phone buzzes softly, signalling he’s received an email. Hank glances over at Connor. His LED has stopped spinning, but he’s keeping his eyes closed.

Hank wants to throw himself out of the car. Instead, he turns left. His house isn’t far away, from here, and he’s not going back to the station. Not now.

Connor only opens his eyes when they enter Hank’s driveway, as he feels the bump of the pavement when they drive over it.

“Lieutenant,” he says, frowning, but Hank shakes his head.

“I need a beer, and you’re not in any shape to be working. Get out of the car.”

Connor looks at him.

“You’re an asshole,” he says flatly, and gets out of the car. Hank grips the steering wheel, caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to burst into tears.

In the end, he does neither, and goes to unlock his front door.

Sumo barks joyfully when he sees them, and immediately shuffles over to Connor, sniffing at his knees.

“Hi, buddy,” Connor says, like the last time he’d been here. Except this time his voice is flat. Hurt.

“I’m gonna go use the bathroom,” Hank manages, fighting through the wave of self-loathing and nausea that washes over him. He disappears into the bathroom, locks the door, and pulls out his phone.

**_Sender: Connor  
Subject: No Subject._ **

_Lt H._

_Thank you for the opportunity of working for the DPD. I will always be in your debt for that. I was made an Officer just a few days ago, having passed my exam, and am to work with Lieutenant Anderson for the time being._

_This is the last email I’ll send you. Before today, I didn’t think I’d be able to end my communication with you this abruptly, but._

_You didn’t show, Daddy. Do you even know the result of the hearing? Do you care? Do you care about me, about anything at all?_

_I felt pain, today. It wasn’t physical, because that’s impossible, but I felt it anyway. And it felt like someone had reached into my chest and torn out part of it. And I never want to feel that again, so these emails will have to stop._

_I have given up on ever hearing from you. I have given up on any expectations I may have had, on any belief that you too considered me a friend._

_So, this is goodbye. And this is your loss, Mr. Android-Hater, Lieutenant H., or whatever your real name is. You’re free, but so am I._

_Whatever you tore out of my chest – I’ve torn you out with it. You’ll never be there, as a friend or anything else. You’ll never be there, Daddy, and I will never know who you are, and that’s how this ends._

_Thank you again for your help._

_Connor._

Hank slides down the door, sits on the floor and draws his knees up to his chest. Wonders if this counts as playing Russian Roulette and losing.

_Thank you_ , he’d written. Hank bites his tongue until he tastes blood. He didn’t deserve thanks. Had he even fucking helped him?

Charity’s a funny thing. It’s easier to give something and leave it at that, feel good about yourself without getting involved with the actual people you’re helping. So you give a dollar to a homeless person without saying a word, or you donate a few bucks to some charity a friend posted on social media, or you hire an android who seemed lost and confused, and you feel like less of a peace of shit than you usually do when you go to bed. Giving is easy. Receiving is difficult.

Who helped who, in this case? Connor had given him so much more than Hank ever gave him, in the end. His thoughts, his feelings, his secrets. His affection. And Hank’s lost them.

Hank lost everything that wasn’t his to lose in the first place. Everything he never deserved to have.

He stares at the email. Goes back to the one before that. Then to the one before that. All the way to the beginning. Stops at the one where Connor sent him “ _Love_ ”.

God, but Hank _loves_ him. It’s stupid, based on almost nothing, far too fucking soon, but he does. And Connor thinks he doesn’t care. Connor felt pain, for the first time, because of him.

He gets up, leaves the bathroom. Gingerly, he steps into the living room. Connor’s on the couch, Sumo curled up on the floor beside him. His eyes are closed, LED gently flashing blue. Shut down mode. He’d done that last time, said it helped time pass faster and allowed any malfunctions in his system to be dealt with. He looks almost dead. Peaceful, frozen.

With shaking fingers, Hank scrolls back down to the most recent email, and hits reply.

**_Sent to: Connor.  
Subject: RE: No Subject._ **

_Dear Connor, Please meet me tomorrow, at 8 am, outside the “Chicken Food” food truck, at the attached location._

_Yours, Lt. H._


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is boys, the big reveal  
> i'm not sorry

It’s hot, outside. Scorching, for the beginning of September, especially this early in the morning. The AC in his car is on at full blast, but Hank barely registers the cool breeze on his skin.

He’d barely slept, last night. Woke up at around 4 a.m., an hour before the alarm he’d set. He’d debated waiting, debated trying to catch a few more minutes of shut eye, but he knew it was pointless. So he’d gotten out of bed, tiptoed to the bathroom and taken the quietest shower of his life. When he’d left just a half hour later, Connor had still been shut down on the couch, LED glowing a soft blue in the darkness of his living room.

He hasn’t eaten, which is probably a good thing, considering how nauseous he feels. He’s been sat here for three hours, just staring out his window, waiting, thinking, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s gonna say.

If Connor even shows up, that is.

Hank doesn’t know how long Androids shut down for. The last time, Connor had been awake long before he had, but that was last time. Connor hadn’t been upset, the last time.

Alternatively, Connor could be awake, but hasn’t checked his email. Why would he? He has no reason to expect that Lt. H. would write back.

Or maybe he has read it, and just isn’t coming. Hank wouldn’t blame him.

He checks the time. 7:43 a.m.

The sunrise had been nice, and the first one Hank’s seen since Cole. They went camping, on his birthday. Had smores, a tent, the whole thing. Cole had woken him up by shaking him, excitedly telling him the sky was going pink. They’d sat outside the tent, eating breakfast bars and drinking water, and Cole had told him about his dreams. It had been way too fucking cold, but Cole had begged to go, so they had, wrapped in about all the layers of clothing they owned. They both had a nasty cold after, but Cole hadn’t complained for a second.

He’d died less than month later.

Hank closes his eyes, opens them again. The food truck stands closed, the place deserted. Just him, sitting in his car, far enough away to not be spotted immediately if Connor does show up.

Hank knows that whatever happens, it won’t go well. If Connor does show up, Hank has to tell him, and Connor will hate him. If he doesn’t show up, Hank will go back home, tell him, and Connor will hate him.

There’s no outcome where he doesn’t lose him. Hank knows this. It’s expected, and it’s his own fault.

It hurts anyway.

He checks the time again. 7:56 a.m. Connor’s never exactly on time, always at least ten minutes early. Hank waits anyway.

It’s ten minutes past 8 before Hank stops staring blankly at the road, waiting for a figure to appear. He exhales, shaky and drawn out, and goes to turn the key in the ignition.

There’s footsteps. Hank freezes, looks up. Connor runs up to the food truck, presses his hand against the side like he’s reached a tangible goal, like touching it will do something. He looks around, eyes wide, lost. Like he had that first day in the office.

Hank gets out of the car. Connor’s eyes follow the sound of his door opening and closing, and as Hank makes his way over to him, his brow furrows in confusion, mouth opening on a question.

“Hey,” Hank says quietly, coming to a stop in front of him.

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, “I thought you went to the office. I didn’t know you were here.” He looks at the food truck, then around himself again.

“I’m sorry, do you come here often?” he asks Hank then, “I’m not sure I’m in the right place.”

Hank swallows, mouth dry. “All the time,” he says, “Best burgers in Detroit.”

“Oh,” Connor says, giving him an uncertain smile. They stand there for a few seconds, just looking at each other.

“I think,” Connor starts, looking around again, “I was supposed to meet someone, but. I think I’m too late.”

This is it. Hank’s stomach twists, bile rising in his throat. He forces it back down.

“Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

“You know?” Connor looks at him, surprised. “Do you… Do you know, about Lieutenant H.? Or, well. I don’t know what his name is. Captain Fowler knew I was being mentored, but you never mentioned it so I assumed you did not.”

“I did,” Hank says, and fuck, his tongue feels like lead in his mouth.

“Oh,” Connor says. He looks around again, nervous.

“Do you know if he’s coming, or if I…?” He trails off, and Hank looks at his shoes.

“No, I suppose I must have missed him,” Connor murmurs, and there it is, the sadness. “I think I’ll -”

“The H stands for Hank,” Hank says. Everything freezes.

“The… I…” Connor’s staring at him, Hank can feel it. He looks up, meets brown eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says then, pathetic, “I’m so sorry. I should have told you.”

“You?” Connor’s voice is quiet, helpless. He suddenly looks years younger than he was designed to appear.

“Yeah,” Hank says, hoarse.

“You read the emails?” Connor asks, and then his eyes widen in realisation, “ _All_ of them?”

“Yes,” Hank says again, and the silence that meets him is louder than anything he’s ever heard. Connor’s LED is a steady yellow.

“Why didn’t you answer?” he asks finally, and God, the hurt in his voice makes Hank want to die right there.

“I… I couldn’t,” he says, words heavy and no way near good enough, “Connor, I -”

“You lied,” Connor says, and he shakes his head, like he can’t process it right, like it doesn’t make any sense. “You pretended that – why would you do that?”

“I don’t know,” Hank says, and it’s a pitiful fucking answer but it’s all he has, “I don’t know.”

“I…” Connor swallows, and he looks stunned, like he doesn’t know what to do with the pain he’s feeling. Hank bites the inside of his cheek, hard.

“I have to go,” Connor says then, and Hank nods once, a sad, wry smile flickering across his face.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’d guessed as much.”

Connor hesitates, looking at him. Brown eyes meet his, and for a second, his face scrunches up like it had yesterday, hurt evident in every line in his skin. Hank stares, takes in his face one more time, gaze lingering over freckles and hurt brown eyes and that damned stray curl.

Connor turns, and walks away. Hank watches him go, chest aching with every step he takes. Connor doesn’t look back.

Hank gets in his car and drives home.

Sumo’s waiting for him when he steps inside his front door, lying on the welcome mat with his head on his paws. He looks up at Hank with a sorrowful expression, like he knows exactly what happened and he’s upset by Hank’s stupidity.

“Me too, bud,” Hank says, and his voice is scarily flat, even to his own ears. He feels numb. It’s a feeling he should be used to, a feeling that he’s had since the day after he lost Cole, everything being replaced by cold, black, nothing. But this numbness aches, like there’s still a faint glow in his chest, fighting not to burn out.

He drags himself to the kitchen, automatically bending to grab a beer from the fridge. He puts it on the counter, leans against it as he stares blankly out the window.

Alone again. It shouldn’t feel as bitter as it does.

“Sumo,” he says quietly as he walks into the living room, letting himself fall onto his couch. The St Bernard pads over to him, panting softly, and when Hank taps his lap, Sumo heaves himself onto the couch and lays his head on Hank’s knees.

“Good dog,” Hank murmurs, fingers running through the soft fur, playing gently with his ears. Sumo sniffs, looks up at him.

“God, you got brown puppy eyes too,” Hank says, and he tries to smile but it just morphs into a grimace.

“I fucked up big, today,” he tells the dog, “I know you liked him too, but you’re not gonna see him again. I’m sorry.”

Sumo lets out a soft whine, moves his head into a more comfortable position, paw bumping against Hank’s thigh.

“Just you and me, bud. Just you and me.”

Hank leans back, brings the bottle to his lips, and doesn’t cry.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All the clues were there,_   
>  _Right before my eyes,_   
>  _How could I be so surprised?_   
>  _And yet, it appears I never knew,_   
>  [ _All this time, Daddy has been you._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xVbMN1t2umU)
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter and finally the rating makes sense! thank you guys so, so much for all your support - I love you all to absolute death!!!

It’s a few hours later, when he’s made his way through two more beers and just decided to go to bed to try to sleep off the lingering pit in his stomach, that the damn door rings. Hank ignores it, heaving himself off the couch to head to his room, but it rings again. And again.

“Fuck’s sake,” he huffs, “Can a guy not get a minute of fucking peace?”

He makes his way to the door, wincing as whoever the fuck it is just keeps ringing.

“Alright,” he shouts as he approaches, “Jesus, what the fuck is -”

He opens the door and freezes. Connor looks back at him, hands in his pockets and mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Connor,” Hank says stupidly.

“Explain,” Connor says, and moves past him, heading to the living room. Hank stares blankly at his front yard for a moment, then closes the door.

“What’re you… I thought you went home?” he asks as he follows him, watching dumbfoundedly as Connor perches on the arm of the couch. Stiff, poised, almost like a mannequin.

“You lied, and you kept your identity a secret. I want to know why.” His face is neutral, an expression Hank’s seen countless times before. Skin smooth, mouth scarily flat; the perfect interrogator. But maybe Hank’s just gotten too used to it, because past the carefully blank features, Connor’s eyes are guarded, angry. Hurt.

“I just…” Hank runs a frustrated hand through his hair, leaning against the wall. “I don’t know, Connor.”

“Yes, you do,” Connor insists, “You always have a reason for doing something. Unless that’s something else I only thought I knew about you.”

He deserves it, but it still stings. Hank closes his eyes, pressing his finger and thumb to the inner corners of them.

“Look, Connor,” Hank starts, and he’s tired. He’s _tired_ , and he’s got so much he wants to say, but there’s no point, anymore. He’s fucked it. He can’t drag it on more than he already has.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me, Hank,” Connor interrupts, and that smooth voice is a lot closer than it was. Hank stops rubbing his eyes and opens them, tries not to flinch as he’s met with Connor’s face right there, dark brown eyes staring defiantly up at him.

“Because I didn’t want to disappoint you,” Hank says, hands wavering at his sides. He wants to put them on Connor’s shoulders, move him back, because they’re too close for comfort. Connor takes a step forward, and if Hank moved his head even an inch, their noses would brush.

“Disappoint me how?” Connor asks, and Hank lets out a frustrated huff.

“Look, I don’t know. I fucked up, alright? So can you just, like -” This time, he does move his hands, but Connor’s faster. He grabs Hank’s wrists, holds them at his sides.

“Stop _lying_ to me!” It’s loud, in the quiet of the living room. Loud and angry and so achingly pleading that Hank’s heart skips a beat.

“Because I’m _me_ ,” he shouts back, “Because you had an image in your head and I wasn’t it, and I didn’t want to disappoint you! And I was damn fine with just reading your reports and moving on, but then you had to be so damn clever and intriguing and you wouldn’t just leave me alone, so screw me, I got attached. And by then it was too fucking late, and I was _scared_ , alright? I was scared.”

Hank breathes in deep, and each shaky inhale feels painful, like a knife in his lungs.

“You got attached?” Connor asks. Hank attempts a laugh, but it comes out choked and broken.

“That’s what you get from that?” he asks, twisting his arm in Connor’s grasp. He wraps his fingers around Connor’s wrist, matching the android’s grip in a gentle and tentative way, asking to be let go. Connor shakes his head minutely. His LED glows yellow.

“You got attached,” he says again, “What do you mean by attached?”

_Christ_. Hank drops his head back against the wall, and the thud hurts but he doesn’t care.

“You really need me to spell it out for ya?” he says weakly.

“Yes,” Connor says, and then, so quietly that Hank only hears it because of how close he is, “Please.”

“I _like_ you,” Hank says, the words struggling to leave his mouth, “You’re funny and insightful and I just. I like being around you. And I wanted to tell you so many goddamn times but every time I tried you just said something or did something and I didn’t want – I just. You had to go and fucking kiss me and - God, I’m just a piece of shit, Connor. That’s all there is to this. I’m an asshole, and I lied, and you have every right to be pissed.”

He stares at his feet, at the old blue socks he’s wearing. His grip on Connor loosens, and his hand hangs limply from where Connor’s still got his fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“I am pissed,” Connor says quietly, “You lied, and you betrayed my trust. You made me feel pain.”

“I’m sorry,” Hank tries to say, but nothing comes out. His lips shape the words, useless and silent.

“I begged you to reply,” Connor continues, “I asked you again and again. And you had countless opportunities to come clean.”

Hank keeps his eyes trained on the floor. One of his socks has a tiny hole.

“You read all my thoughts, thoughts that were private, not meant for you. You let me believe that the first friend I ever thought I had, someone I desperately wanted to know, didn’t care about me. You never told me that you were _right there_.”

Sumo whines in the background. Hank stares at the hole in his sock until his vision blurs.

“But,” Connor says then, “I should have known. And I’m not disappointed. I’m glad.”

“What?” Hank looks back up, takes in Connor’s face, looks for the lie. He doesn’t find it. All he sees are unflinching brown eyes and delicate freckles, so close to him that Hank almost goes cross-eyed looking at him.

“I like you,” Connor says, and he looks almost scared but his voice doesn’t waver, “And I’m glad it’s you. You made me feel pain, but you made me feel a lot more, and that – I don’t want to lose that.”

“Connor,” Hank says, “This isn’t – other people will make you feel things too, better things than -”

“I don’t _want_ other people, Hank,” Connor says stubbornly, “I only ever wanted you, and I should’ve known it was you from the beginning. All the clues were there, and I should have recognised your voice, at least. And I’m so glad that it’s you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Hank starts, shaking his head, and Connor huffs. He moves his hands down from Hank’s wrists, clasping their hands together. Soft, delicate fingers intertwine with his, holding tight.

“Shut up,” Connor tells him, “Please.”

Hank opens his mouth, wants to list all the reasons why this is a goddamn terrible idea, wants to explain why Connor should just leave and never look back. He wants to sit them down and talk, wants to apologise, to convince Connor that he deserves so much fucking better, that everything about this is a mistake.

Connor kisses him. His lips press almost harshly against Hank’s, leaving no room for discussion. It’s not as clumsy as the first time they did this, but there’s still the underlying uncertainty there, in the way he doesn’t remember to move his lips, the way he leans into him, pressing him against the wall. Hank struggles for a moment, tries to slow down and pull back, tries to think. Connor makes a frustrated sound, letting go of his wrists to wrap his arms around his neck, holding him there. Hank lets out a shuddering breath, slides one hand around the back of Connor’s neck and moves the other to his hip, and kisses back.

It’s too easy, to do this. It’s easy to move his lips against Connor’s, easy to slide his thumb under Connor’s shirt and stroke at his hipbone, at the slight bump of his scar. It’s easy to hold him close, to slide his tongue between soft, synthetic lips and kiss him until he’s out of air. It’s easy, and it’s nice, and Hank loves it. But he doesn’t deserve it.

“Connor,” he murmurs, noses bumping slightly, “This isn’t – I don’t -”

“Shut up,” Connor says again, “You don’t get to tell me what I should or shouldn’t want.”

Hank exhales shakily, shakes his head.

“I don’t want to do that,” he tries, “But this – Connor, are you -”

“Why are you so adamant on convincing me that you’re not good enough?”

It’s asked simply, firmly. Hank swallows the lump in his throat.

“Because I’m _not_ ,” he says, “And I don’t deserve – I just want to make sure that -”

 “It’s not about what you deserve,” Connor interrupts then, quiet, “It’s about what I deserve. And I deserve you.”

The way he says it is honest, genuine, sincere. Everything Connor just is, because Connor is good. Connor is good, and he wants him, and nothing in Hank’s life has ever made less sense than that. But Connor’s asking, and Hank’s tired of refusing him. He falters, resolve crumbling, and squeezes Connor’s hip.

“Are you s-”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Connor kisses him again. Hard, frustrated, no room for objection, his lips turning up at the corners when Hank huffs against his mouth.

“Can’t a guy ask any questions?” Hank complains, voice muffled, and Connor hums.

“You never answered any of mine,” he reminds him, and Hank’s about to defend himself except Connor’s faster.

“I’m only being fair, Daddy.”

Hank freezes.

It’s one thing to see it written in emails, to know the context of the stupid nickname based on a goddamn insect of all things. It’s an entirely different thing hearing it in that soft, goofy voice, with the skin of Connor’s hip smooth beneath his hand and his lips playfully brushing against his. He’s suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“Lieutenant?” Connor asks then, and the bastard genuinely sounds concerned, “Are you alright?”

“Peachy,” Hank forces himself to say, sounding anything but. Connor frowns.

“Your face is flushed and your heartbeat has quickened considerably,” he informs him, and Hank’s face feels like it’s burning, “If this is not something you want then -”

“No, that’s not it,” he manages, “It’s – I do want this, so long as you do. Um. It’s just. You caught me off guard.”

“I don’t understand. What did I do?”

“Ah, shit.” Hank looks up at the ceiling, takes a breath. “Just the nickname, alright? I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Daddy?” Connor asks, and Hank uses a considerable amount of energy to keep himself from screaming.

“Yeah,” he says through gritted teeth, “It’s uh. You can’t really, just. Say it, like that.”

“Why?” Connor honest to God pouts, then. Like he’s upset that he can’t use it, upset that Hank doesn’t like the nickname he’s given him. Hank wants to sink into the floor.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters to himself, and sighs. He can do this. He’s a millennial. He can explain this without making it weird.

“That word is only ever really used in two contexts,” he says slowly, “And you using it now is, uh. It’s a bit. Like, I don’t really think you know what it means.”

Connor looks confused. He closes his eyes, LED spinning yellow.

“Oh fuck, wait,” Hank says quickly, realising, “Don’t _look it up_ , it’s -”

“Oh,” Connor says, opening his eyes. He looks up at Hank, takes in his face, which is probably tomato red at this point. “ _Oh_ ,” he says again, softly.

“Yeah,” Hank says, and clears his throat. Connor’s eyes flicker to his neck, watching as Hank swallows.

“Does it bother you?” he asks then. Hank stares.

“Does it… What?”

“When I call you Daddy.”

_Fucking Christ._

 “It’s – I don’t -” Hank stutters, and because the universe hates him and God himself has a grudge against him, Connor’s mouth spreads into a slow, knowing grin.

“I think it does,” he says quietly, “But not necessarily in an unpleasant way.”

“Connor,” Hank says weakly, “I don’t think -”

Connor rises up on his tiptoes and kisses him again, slow and deep. Slowly, his fingers make their way into Hank’s hair, scratching gently across his scalp. He pulls back, exhaling softly against Hank’s lips.

“Please, Daddy,” he murmurs then, soft and sweet, and Hank’s grip on his hip tightens against his will.

It’s not a kink he has, is the thing. Even in his younger days, back when his back wasn’t constantly sore and he thought vanilla sex was boring, that was never something he looked into. He doesn’t judge, he just never got the appeal, always thought it was kind of weird. Not because he associates the word with being a father, because Cole always called him “ _Pops_ ”, like Hank had called his father when he was younger. But all those awful pornos where “ _Daddy_ ” was thrown around every goddamn five seconds and those weird millennial t-shirt slogans he used to see online were enough to put him off.

And yet.

“Connor,” Hank says again, because his brain isn’t cooperating and even if it was he wouldn’t know what to say anyway. Connor tilts his head innocently. Hank grits his teeth.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” he tells him, and Connor just hums, pressing himself closer against him, so they’re chest to chest. His skin is so warm, and Hank’s hand slides up under Connor’s shirt, brushing against the small of his back.

“I am sorry,” Hank murmurs then, because Connor is there, soft and warm and real, “I never meant to hurt you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Connor says, fingers stroking over Hank’s beard. He smiles softly, like he likes the way it feels under his fingertips. His thumb brushes over Hank’s lower lip, and he looks up at him, brown eyes soft, awfully fond.

“You’re really pretty,” Hank mumbles, because he figures he may as well keep this honesty train going. For a moment Connor just looks surprised, and Hank feels his face heat up all over again, but then Connor’s face lights up and he laughs. It’s such an unexpectedly beautiful, joyful sound, one he’s never heard him make before, but God, it suits him.

“Thank you,” Connor says, grinning with cheeks tinted blue, and Hank’s glad he’s not the only one blushing. “That makes me feel happy.”

“Good,” Hank says gruffly, scratching lightly at Connor’s skin. The android shivers, ever so slight.

“You feel that?” Hank asks, just because he’s not sure how Connor’s sensory things work, exactly. He knows he can’t feel physical pain, but he’s curious about pleasure.

“Yes,” Connor breathes, “I feel everything you do to me.”

Hank’s mouth feels dry. He swallows, pulls his hand away. Connor makes a confused noise.

“Why did you stop?” he asks, sounding almost annoyed.

“Don’t wanna make you go too fast,” Hank tells him, “Or make you feel pressured, I guess.”

“You’re not,” Connor says, and Hank rolls his eyes.

“Look, I just think we need to talk about what you want from this, and -”

“ _Daddy_ ,” Connor whines, voice pitched to perfection, brown eyes wide and lips pursed in that same goddamn pout, and Hank doesn’t know whether to be annoyed, embarrassed, aroused, or a fucked up mix of all three. Connor kisses him before he can decide.

It’s at that point, really, that Hank stops caring about the potential ethical dilemmas he’s facing. Arguably, he knows this is a bit fucked up, because Connor is young and beautiful and Hank’s a fucking mess of a human, and for all of Connor’s eagerness, Hank knows he hasn’t done anything like this before. But Connor’s here, wrapped up in his arms, sucking on his tongue like they’ve done this a thousand times before, like he has no intention of ever doing anything else.

So Hank firmly puts his hands on either side of Connor’s waist, fingers digging into the soft skin, and moves forward, taking Connor with him. The android’s breath catches, and he stumbles a little as Hank pushes him back, but he lets him. They make their way through the hallway, and Hank slides his hands down, over Connor’s ass and down to his thighs.

“Up,” he murmurs, and Connor complies, jumping and wrapping his legs around Hank’s waist. He’s heavy, and Hank’s not as strong as he used to be, but he’s stubborn. He carries Connor into his bedroom, biting at Connor’s lower lip, and the surprised squeak that leaves him when Hank drops him onto his bed is entirely too gratifying. Hank grins, watches him kick off those damned dress shoes he always wears and scrabble backwards towards the headboard before crawling over him to bring their lips back together. Connor moans, legs falling open to let Hank settle between them, and it turns into a gasp as Hank rolls his hips down.

“You okay?” Hank asks him, breathless, moving his lips to the pale skin of his neck.

“Yes, yeah,” Connor says, shuddering as Hank sucks and bites at a spot just under his jaw, “Just feels so new.”

“Want me to keep going?” Gently, Hank kisses the spot he’d been biting, and there’s a dark blue mark there that he hopes will keep, stark against Connor’s skin.

“Please,” Connor says, strangled, and Hank chuckles.

“So eager,” he says, sliding his hands under Connor’s shirt, scratching at his ribs with his right hand and moving the fingers of his left to circle Connor’s nipple, his touch light and teasing. Connor makes a choked noise, arms going above his head and letting Hank pull off his top.

And fuck, but he’s beautiful. Hank can’t help but stare, taking in the spattering of freckles and wondering why the fuck Cyberlife thought they were necessary but also being so damn thankful that they’re there.

“Hank,” Connor complains, squirming, and Hank bows his head, pressing a kiss to his chest before sucking one of his nipples into his mouth. Connor’s back arches, hands scrabbling helplessly at the headboard.

“Fuck,” he gasps, and Hank hums.

“You’re so sensitive,” he says as he pulls off, and Connor whines at the loss.

“I’m not used to this much stimulation to my sensors,” he says, breath hitching as Hank starts to kiss his way down his torso, “Since turning on my previously unused pleasure receptors, every touch is sending an array of electric impulses throughout my body, like a stronger replication of -”

“English, Con,” Hank says firmly, fingers moving to the button of his jeans. Because Connor wears jeans. Skinny ones. Because he’s an asshole.

“Everything is overwhelming and feels good,” Connor says hastily, “Fuck, Hank, just -”

“Oh, so we’re back to Hank, now?” Hank teases, pulling his jeans down Connor’s legs at a frustratingly slow place. Connor huffs, pushes himself up onto his forearms to glare at him.

“I’d appreciate it if you went faster,” he says, “ _Daddy_.”

“Maybe if you ask nicely,” Hank quips, trailing teasing fingers over the inside of Connor’s thighs, soft and smooth, completely hairless. It should feel weird, but it doesn’t.

“ _Please._ ” Connor drops onto his back, cursing up at the ceiling. Hank takes pity, rubs his palm over the prominent bulge in Connor’s pants. He’s rewarded with a moan, Connor’s hips stuttering.

“So you’re like, fully equipped?” Hank hooks his fingers under the waistband of Connor’s briefs, pauses.

“Yes,” Connor says shakily, “I suppose Cyberlife felt detective androids should have all means at their disposal, in case they could be helpful in an investigation.”

Hank doesn’t want to think about what kind of investigations would require a dick. He rubs his thumb over Connor’s stomach, kisses his hip.

“Is this okay?” he asks again, because he has to make sure, has to give Connor as many chances as he can to change his mind, has to be completely certain that he wants this, because he can’t actually fathom why he _would_.

“Yes,” Connor says, impatient, but when he glances down at Hank, his expression softens.

“I want this,” he says, voice soothing but confident. “I want _you_ , Daddy.”

Hank takes a breath, and pulls the black briefs down Connor’s legs. His cock is hard, between his thighs, flushed a cool shade of purple. Other than that, it looks completely human, average in size and precome leaking from the tip. Hank swallows down the sudden saliva that fills his mouth, reaches out to wrap tentative fingers around it.

“Yes,” Connor breathes, eyes fluttering shut and LED spinning yellow. Slowly, Hank starts to stroke, experimentally tightening and loosening his grip, trying to see what Connor likes. Eventually, he finds a decent rhythm, slower than he’d do to himself, but then again Connor is feeling this for the first time. His teeth dig into his bottom lip, and every time Hank thumbs over his slit, a shiver runs up his body. He’s incredibly responsive, pliant under his ministrations, soft moans filling the air between them. Hank slides down the bed, kissing his way down Connor’s chest.

“Daddy,” Connor whimpers, shuddering when Hank nips at his inner thigh.

“Can I?” Hank asks, and Connor probably doesn’t know what he means but he nods anyway. It’s a bit scary, to be trusted this much, so Hank moves slow, watching Connor’s reactions as he lifts his legs and places them over his shoulders. Connor sucks in a breath that he doesn’t technically need, and his heels dig into Hank’s back, pulling him closer. Hank smiles, bows his head, and takes him into his mouth.

And yeah, Hank’s older now, past his prime, and there’s stuff that he can’t do as easily as younger, stronger men could. But if there’s one thing he does know how to do, if there’s one thing he perfected during college and that he can use to his advantage, it’s sucking cock.

He teases the head of Connor’s dick with his tongue, takes him deeper and hollows his cheeks, and the way Connor’s gasping his name paired with how he tastes, different and almost sweet – Hank moans, pushing his hips against the mattress for some relief, any relief at all. He’s so fucking hard in his jeans, doesn’t want to imagine the state of his underwear.

“ _Daddy_ , please, I want -” Connor breaks off on a groan, a hand coming down to fist into Hank’s hair. Hank just hums, sucks a little harder, and digs his fingers into Connor’s thighs.

“Please, please, please,” Connor babbles, breathing in short little pants, fingers tugging at Hank’s hair. Hank groans softly, pulls back and lets Connor slide out of his mouth.

“How d’you want to do this?” he asks, breathless, before sucking a bruise into his thigh, because it’s there and because he can.

“I don’t – what do you mean?” Connor asks, and his eyes are glassy when they look at him. Hank doesn’t know why that’s something Cyberlife felt Connor should have – eyes that can go glassy and unfocused and pupils blown out wide – but fuck if he’s complaining.

“I can keep blowing you,” Hank says, “Or I can do something else. It’s up to you.”

Connor hesitates, swallows.

“What do you want to do?” he asks Hank then, and that’s a very loaded question. There are a lot of answers.

Hank looks at him, takes in cheeks flushed blue and swollen lips, the bruises he’d made earlier that are already beginning to fade. God, he _wants_.

“I’d love to finger you,” he says, “If that’s something you’d like.” Connor exhales sharply, nods his head.

“Yes, yes I’d like that,” he says, and Hank grins, moves up to kiss him.

“I need to get lube,” he says, goes to pull away, but Connor grabs hold of his arm.

“No need,” he says, “Don’t go.”

“Connor, I don’t wanna damage -”

“I am fitted with a self-lubrication system,” Connor interrupts. Hank’s mouth opens. Closes again. He’s a dumb fish.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, and Connor lets out a quiet laugh. Tentatively, he reaches for Hank’s hand, brings it between his legs.

He’s fucking _wet_.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hank groans, and he presses against Connor’s hole with his index finger, circles the rim. Connor pushes his hips towards him, eager, and Hank carefully slides his finger inside.

“ _Yes_ ,” Connor urges, “You can – more.”

He’s so warm, hot and tight, but Hank can slide a second finger in with barely any resistance. He scissors his fingers, pushing against the tightness, and Connor whimpers.

“Kiss me,” he pleads, “Daddy, I -”

Hank kisses him, sucks on his tongue, groans against his lips. Here he is, getting off because of Connor’s fucking voice saying that fucking word.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he manages, and curls his fingers upwards. For a moment he wonders if androids even have a prostate, but then his fingers graze against something bumpy and Connor shouts, back arching.

“ _Shit_ ,” he curses, and it’s surreal enough to hear him curse as it is, but like this, his voice desperate and sounding almost static-y – Hank wants to replay it over and over in his mind for the rest of his life. He adds a third finger, stretching and curling, and starts to move them back and forth. Connor’s so wet that he’s dripping, soft gasps and moans falling from his lips as Hank fucks him with his fingers.

“Fucking Hell, Connor,” Hank says roughly, and Connor whines.

“Please,” he begs, “More, I need – _Hank_.”

“What do you want, baby?” Hank asks, the pet name escaping before he even registers what he’s saying. Connor’s breath catches, and Hank presses his lips just below Connor’s ear, kissing sloppily at the skin. He’s sweating, shirt sticking to his back.

“Off,” Connor says, hands pushing at his jeans, tugging at his shirt, “Want you, Daddy.”

“Want me to fuck you?” Hank asks, cock throbbing in his pants. Connor whimpers, nods frantically, and fuck, he doesn’t need to ask Hank twice. He moves back, pulls his shirt over his head and undoes his belt, and there’s a split second where he feels unbelievably self-conscious, but then Connor’s fingers are undoing the button of Hank’s jeans and everything else kind of fades out, at that point.

There’s an awkward moment where Hank kicks his jeans off, clumsy and too hasty, but then Connor’s legs are wrapping around his waist and Hank’s lining himself up, and then everything is _hot_ and _tight_ and so unbelievably _good_ that he can barely breathe.

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” he gasps, burying his face in Connor’s neck. Connor’s panting, hands clutching at his shoulders.

“ _Daddy_ ,” he moans, shuddering under him, and Hank moves his hips. Slowly, for both their sakes, and he grabs Connor’s wrists, pinning them above his head and intertwining their fingers.

He’s a romantic. Screw him.

“Faster,” Connor gasps, squeezing his hands, and Hank obliges. Can’t not. The world fades down to this, Connor’s fingers in his, Connor’s skin smooth to the touch, Connor’s hair messy with that stray curl falling into his face, Connor’s lips parting on sweet moans and soft keens, Connor, Connor, _Connor_. It’s overwhelming, the way that this feels right even though it makes no goddamn sense, and Hank’s so unbelievably turned on that he can’t stop his hips from snapping forward, too rough, bumping Connor up the bed with the force of it.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, but Connor’s writhing under him, mouth slack, LED flashing yellow. His legs tighten where they’re wrapped around Hank’s waist, pulling him closer, not letting go.

“Good?” Hank snaps his hips forward again, and Connor’s answering whine is all the answer he needs. He picks up the pace, angles his hips to hit that spot inside of him, over and over again.

“Too much,” Connor gasps, “Daddy, I can’t – oh _God_.”

“You’re alright,” Hank stutters, kisses whatever he can reach. Connor shudders, and he’s so warm under him, Hank feels like they’re burning together. Connor’s LED is yellow, whirling fast with intermittent bursts of blue, blue, and _red_.

“ _Daddy_ ,” he moans, and Hank can only watch as Connor’s eyes snap open in shock, warm brown and pupils blown wide, and then he’s clenching around him and Hank’s _gone_. He muffles his groan into Connor’s shoulder, shakes as pleasure rushes through him. Connor’s tense under him, back arched, and through the haze of it all Hank feels wetness on his stomach, feels him _come_.

“Fucking Christ,” he says weakly, and it takes all of his strength to not collapse there and then. He pulls out as gingerly as he can, rolls to the side and onto his back, gasping for breath. Connor whimpers quietly at the loss, hand reaching out to grasp his. His LED is back to blue, bright and brilliant in the faint light of Hank’s bedroom.

“You okay?” Hank asks, rubbing his thumb over Connor’s knuckles. Connor smiles then, cheeks still flushed blue, and turns his head to look at him.

“Yes,” he says softly, “More than.”

And fuck, he’s beautiful. His usually perfect hair is a mess, a few stray curls falling over his forehead, and his lips are actually swollen, kiss-bitten and wet with saliva. Hank leans forward to kiss him, soft, slow. Connor hums quietly, fingers of one hand coming up to stroke at his beard.

“Thank you,” Connor murmurs then, and Hank laughs, quiet and incredulous.

“What the Hell for?” he asks.

“Making me feel so much,” he replies, “Letting me make an impact.”

Hank shakes his head. “That’s all you, Connor,” he says truthfully, “You made the impact, just you.”

Connor looks at him, and it’s fond. Hank’s heart squeezes.

“Thank you,” he says then, because he knows if he waits till tomorrow he’ll never say it, “For coming back.”

Connor’s answering smile is breath-taking, and there’s a part of Hank’s brain that panics at how much he loves it, but Connor curls up into his side, hand resting on his stomach and head leaning against his chest, and he shuts the panic out.

“Let’s stop with the emails,” Connor says, “I much prefer communicating this way.”

And Hank wants to laugh, wants to come up with some witty retort, wants to tell Connor how much he loved every message he ever sent, but he’s so, so tired. His eyes are closing without him wanting to, Connor a warm, soothing weight by his side.

“Stay,” he murmurs instead, because there’s a lot of stuff that he can’t put into words but this is easy. He pulls Connor close, fingers stroking his lower back, nosing at synthetic hair. Connor replies, voice soft and quiet in his ear, and it’s the last thing Hank hears before he falls asleep.

“ _Of course_.”

And, waking up God knows how many hours later, the smell of pancakes wafting in his apartment and Sumo barking with delight as Connor laughs, it seems he could be telling the truth.

Hank decides to believe him.


End file.
